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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493303">The Earl and the Dryad</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstuddedsin/pseuds/starstuddedsin'>starstuddedsin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Monrovia [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bestiality, Boypussy, Choking, Cunnilingus, Dehumanization, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Exhibitionism, Genital Piercing, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lactation, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nipple Piercings, Painful Sex, Prolapse, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex, Whipping, Wooden Horse - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:55:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>66,477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstuddedsin/pseuds/starstuddedsin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, the Earl of Summerstoke traded King Bardolph a sex slave in exchange for certain political favors. The perfect sex slave. A dryad, a creature with a tight, fertile cunt and a needy little cocklet. Anka, the dryad, was a pregnant whore when Summerstoke found him. Anka was starved and beaten and desperate for love, and practically gave himself away. Put up no fight when Summerstoke had him trained up into the perfect cocksleeve, alternating pain and pleasure until Anka nearly broke.</p><p>Even now, the guilt haunts Summerstoke. But when another dryad comes to Monrovia, seeking something from the Earl, and as Anka's own child is threatened, Anka himself must begin to make difficult choices about the life <i>he</i> wants to lead. </p><p>If, that is, someone as abused and low as Anka has any fight left in him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Monrovia [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>385</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Dryads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is technically a sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24092500/chapters/57990670">"The Switch"</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203734/chapters/58303435">"Anka"</a>, but you won't actually have to read those to enjoy this. You might enjoy "Anka" if you're really curious about the backstory here, and "The Switch" if you really want some pregnant elf abuse in your life. But each story in this series is meant to more or less work as a standalone.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sailors of the Royal Exploration Company were enjoying the dryad. </p><p>Dryads had three holes to enjoy. Mouth, arse, and cunt. They had tits too, most of them, and they always had a cock to abuse. This dryad’s cock was being hit, over and over, with a rope flogger. The creature jerked about pathetically, trying to hold back ragged grunts of pain. The flogger attacked its battered cock again and again, often striping its cunt and thighs as well. The dryad's little, barely-there tits bounced with every hit.</p><p>Their ship had docked in the Capitol four days ago. The captain had said that the dryad was to be delivered to the Duke of Allerton tomorrow, right before the ship set off again. </p><p>All inhuman criminals went to Allerton. Allerton knew just how to fix all these animals that were poisoning Monrovia with their savagery. Not just dryads but Wrollves too, and Snellings and Drukks and Eelies and Peskies. Allerton was the champion of the humans, and every inhuman that tried to come despoil good Monrovian soil was learning to fear him. </p><p>Allerton would be proud of them, for what they were doing to the dryad. And it was their last night with the thing, their last night in good old Monrovia, so it stood to reason they ought to make it a proper to-do. </p><p>The dryad kept trying to struggle up. Though its torn shirt was caked in blood, its cunt and cock swollen with abuse, it was a stupidly proud thing. It blinked sightlessly after every hit, and tried to get back up again. </p><p>They had taken its manacles off. It had worn them for weeks as it thrashed about beneath each man, tried to fight the near-unending barrage of rapes pressed upon it. But it wouldn’t do that now. It had stopped really fighting four days ago, when the captain had ordered the Wrollf off the ship. </p><p>Allerton had wanted the Wrollf most of all. This dryad was an afterthought, an extra gift for the captain to show his esteem to his ducal commander. The captain thought to surprise Allerton with it before the ship left again. It was rumored that Allerton hated dryads especially. </p><p>So they took their care destroying this one. When they were tired of the flogging, they forced him to his knees and fucked into his holes once more. A cock ramming his arse while another assaulted his cunt. The man in his mouth choked him and laughed, then slapped his face twice, three times while the cock was still in his throat. </p><p>An especially large sailor, fat enough to bruise the dryad’s ribs, got on his chest and helped himself to a titfuck. He grabbed and twisted the green-tinged nipples as the dryad flailed about on the floor, his fingers scrabbling for purchase. But there was no purchase. He was being fucked so hard it scraped him into the wood of the cabin floor. One of the floorboards was curling up and splintering, coming loose. A particularly hard thrust left him almost impaled on one of its nails, and lodged the floorboard out entirely. </p><p>The dryad blinked away a whimper of pain. </p><p>The pole in his cunt was especially brutal. It kept thrusting and thrusting and thrusting against his aching insides, forcing open his tunnel with stark violence. The dryad had been tight once, weeks ago, when they had captured him. Now he was loose. But it didn’t help — he could feel a sailor fucking into him so deep that that fat cock was at his cervix, bruising that too. </p><p>And it was cold down here in the hold. It was so cold. These sailors had seen D’laniaa, the dryad homeland. They knew that dryads were only really meant to survive in jungle heat. So they made sure to keep him as cold as possible in between the fucking, to torment him more. </p><p>All he could feel was the hard, unforgiving cocks of them. They never scraped the good places inside him. They just rammed him open, gagged him with unwashed prick so he couldn’t breathe, made his brain white out with pain. All was pain. Pain followed by cold. </p><p>And then, should he receive even a moment’s rest, grief. </p><p>After they’d taken the Wrollf out he’d begun to cry a bit. Before that, he’d been able to stay truly proud. He had not shed a tear or made a sound. He tried even now to stay proud, kept trying to scrabble for a moment of stillness among the bobbing of the ship and the thrusting of the men, his hands grabbing fruitlessly at the rough slats of floor. But he knew his eyes were wet. Wet from more than just the heavy, pungent cock in his throat. </p><p>As they’d tortured him, he had been able to hear them torturing the Wrollf too. Had been able to hear his Wrollf’s agonized howls. That was why he’d made himself stay silent — he hadn’t wanted to make things worse for his Wrollf, hadn’t wanted his Wrollf to suffer the way he was suffering, hearing a mate’s torment. </p><p>The assaults never truly let up. But they did ebb and flow. This was the last day the ship was to be docked in the Capitol, and the sailors wanted to have fun with the dryad, but they wanted more to enjoy the pleasures of land. Eventually the men spent in him, on him, and left for the drinking halls. Only the corpulent one that had so mauled his breasts was left, whistling to himself as he forced the dryad’s head to the floor and made him lick up the dirty spend. </p><p>The sailor’s trousers were still about his ankles. Clearly he meant to fuck the dryad again. The dryad lifted his head weakly, trying to think through the cold. The sailor roughly pushed his head back down. </p><p>“Lick it, Switch,” he said. </p><p>Switch. Yes. That was the vulgar Monrovian term for his people, for the dryads, the D’lani. The dryad had nearly forgotten that. But then he’d forgotten most things. He’d been tortured for three weeks. </p><p>His battered tongue rasped along the crusting, foul semen on the hold floor. He thought for a moment. Only one sailor. He was so weak, but there was only one sailor. </p><p>
He licked. He licked. The taste on his tongue was already the taste of unwashed, sweaty prick, so it didn’t matter that he was licking up spend now. He stretched a hand out to the loose floorboard, cautiously. Slowly. And he licked. </p><p>The large sailor didn’t see it coming, when the dryad drove the floorboard into his face. The nail lodged in the sailor’s eye. The dryad was so cold he could barely process the man’s scream. He just lifted the board and brought it down again, over and over, to make sure there were no more screams. Then he dropped the nail-studded floorboard and shakily made his way to the deck. </p><p>D’lani could not generally swim, but he could. He said a thanks to the leaves and the bark. Then, because beyond the grime of the docks he knew it would be cold autumn in Monrovia, the time all the Monrovian trees put on their best clothes and still failed to beat back the winter, he said a prayer to the sky and the dragonflies. </p><p>He knew the cold water might kill him. </p><p>He dove anyway. </p><p>-</p><p>Twenty two miles away, in the marble splendor of Castle Voliere, a very different dryad was just waking up. </p><p>His name was Anka. He belonged to the king. </p><p>He slept in a finely painted wardrobe in the king’s room. He kept odd hours, because the king did. He woke whenever the king shouted for him, kissed the pointed ears of Elly, who was four and small enough to sleep curled up in the same wardrobe as his mother, and opened the wardrobe door. </p><p>Then he padded over to the royal bed. </p><p>King Bardolph liked to eat breakfast in bed, and he liked Anka on his cock while he did it. Anka had learned to climb onto the great featherbed, crawl over to the huge, heavy form of his monarch, and lift the edge of the white nightshirt. Beneath that, His Majesty’s prick would already be standing at attention, a thick and imposing rod. It never looked like it could fit inside Anka. The dryad was of middling height and very slender, a matchstick where the king was a battering ram. </p><p>But Anka would impale himself on the king’s cock anyway. He would work it deep into his cunt. The hard cock would rub into him too tightly at first, but that was alright. Anka had been the royal cocksleeve for nearly five years now, and a whore all his life before that. His cunny, his dirty dick ditch, his little peach, as the king variously called it depending on His Majesty’s mood, wet itself rather easily. Even if the intrusion hurt at first, eventually it would be good too. </p><p>Not too good. The king didn’t bother to give Anka pleasure, and Anka had been trained too well — trained and trained for months taking the poles of half the peerage — to ever try and sate his own needs at times like these. </p><p>“Where’re your bells?” the king demanded this morning. “I wanted them on your cunt, Anka.”</p><p>He was using Anka’s name today. Anka breathed out a sigh of relief. It had taken the king two months to bother to ask his name, but when His Majesty used it it generally meant he was in a good mood. </p><p>“Forgive me, Majesty. You said I made too much noise with them before. I took them out.”</p><p>Earlier, before falling into his midday nap, the King had wanted Anka to dance for him. Anka had done so, but the bells he usually wore in his breasts and cunt piercings had made too much noise for the monarch to slip asleep. He’d wanted to watch Anka only, to enjoy the sight but not the sound of his naked, green-tinged white form. So Anka had apologized profusely to the annoyed monarch, removed the bells, and then tried to do his best at the dance to appease him. </p><p>Now he clenched around the enormous cock inside him, making it good for the king. He clenched and clenched and fucked back further, kneeling with his head down so that his slim white back made a kind of table for the king to put his plate on. The king did so. </p><p>“Do that again,” the king commanded. “Like that squeeze. Keep squeezing while I eat. I want that green peach of yours nice and tight, Anka.”</p><p>Anka obeyed. The trick was to rest on his forearms and keep his back as still as he could, while his hips and thighs rocked back and did the work of impaling himself. This wasn’t easy, but he managed. The big cock was so familiar by now, it was almost rote to squeeze around it and get his well-worn cunt to swallow it up. </p><p>The king filled himself up with buttered rolls and bacon, lemon cakes and custard tarts, all balanced on Anka’s back. Anka filled himself up with the king’s cock. The fullness was almost nice at this point, if not enough. If Anka could sneak a hand down and rub the nub above his cunny, that would be better. But that nub usually only got rubbed by accident these days. His little dryad cocklet, swinging and rubbing its drooling tip against the sheets while he fucked himself, was much the same. </p><p>Eventually the king gave a satisfied groan and came in Anka. But he was still eating. The meal usually lasted longer than the fuck. Anka stayed prostrate and let his monarch finish, let Bardolph soften in him. Sometimes Bardolph took a piss in him, rather than interrupt his meal with a trip to the regal royal bathroom next door. But today he didn’t. Today he even had a custard tart left over which he distractedly fed Anka. </p><p>“Damn good fuck,” he said. “You’re always a damn good fuck.”</p><p>“Thank you, my king,” Anka said. “You do me honor.”</p><p>“Got a better way of speaking now, too. Don’t sound like so much of whore as when you came.”</p><p>The king was noticing that? Anka had worked hard to rid himself of the sorry accent he’d had, the lowborn burr of the Gin Tangle, the slum he had been born and raised in. He didn’t want Elly aping his ugly common vowels. But for the king to pay attention made this truly a rare day. </p><p>“My king, you really are too kind to me.”</p><p>The king nodded, already perfectly convinced of this himself. Anka couldn’t see the nod but could feel the vast belly behind him shake its agreement. </p><p>The king took his cup and passed it to Anka. Anka contorted himself just enough to take one of his nipples and squeeze his rich, pale green milk into the cup. This was good — the heaviness in his breasts was so ever-present that he scarcely noticed it anymore, but now that he had some relief from it it was like his mind cleared a bit.  </p><p>The king took the cup back and took a deep swig. </p><p>The door to the wardrobe opened. Elly slipped quietly out, trailing his stuffed Wrollf behind him. Anka noticed, but could not be obvious about noticing. </p><p>Elly had to be watched. As soon as he’d learned to walk, he had taken to wandering, and Anka feared what would happen to a small D’lani, the child of a slave, alone in the great halls of Castle Voliere. </p><p>But today there was no wandering. The child flicked big black eyes at Anka and the king, saw nothing unusual, and quietly padded to the little corner where its own breakfast awaited it. It was a much smaller feast than the king’s, but would do just fine for Elly. Anka had made sure to befriend the castle cooks especially so that it would have what they said were all the right things for a child: warm porridge with sugar, fresh fruit juice. Even a small rasher of bacon.  </p><p>He watched the boy eat from a corner of his eye. Elly ate very quietly but finished it all. Then he began just as quietly playing with his Wrollf. Anka breathed out a sigh, relieved. </p><p>The king himself did not notice Elly at all. He rarely did. He was chewing on a roll and reading about the winning horses at the racetrack. The king was mad for horses. </p><p>“Dammit,” he said. “Summerstoke’s Irvidistani pony’s won again. Wish I had an Irvidistani pony. Dammit, I’m the king! I’ll ask him for the pony. Summerstoke’ll give it to me. Summerstoke’s my friend. Got the finest of everything, Summerstoke, but he knows who his king is.”</p><p>Now Anka stiffened on the king’s cock. The king slapped his arse. Even Elly blinked at the loud sound it made, though the child didn’t look up from his game. </p><p>“Raring to go again? You’re a good slut, Anka. You came from Summerstoke too, didn’t you? Or Allerton?”</p><p>Anka had to breathe in, out. Before he replied. </p><p>“Summerstoke, your Majesty.”</p><p>Anka had been personally gifted to the king by Robert Westruther, the Eleventh Earl of Summerstoke. Summerstoke had found Anka when Anka was the lowest kind of street whore, a nameless worthless Switch, abused and pregnant in the constabulary gaol. He’d rescued Anka and named him. Then he’d passed Anka to his friend Celeste Rivenhall for training, months of training. Anka had been perfected, had learned to service all kinds of highly particular lords and even a few fellow inhumans while ostensibly playing the part of maid at Miss Rivenhall’s school. </p><p>He’d been plowed by a Snelling, its corkscrew cock leaving his arse entirely ruined. He’d warmed the freezing, hairy prick of a Drukk in his mouth. He’d been fucked by men who liked to praise him and by men who wanted to see how their words could ruin the little pride Summerstoke had offered when he'd given Anka a name. He’d met lords that mostly liked to beat him, and lords that taught him how to be both a willing cunt and a breakfast tray, like he was being now. </p><p>All of it bearable only for the moments his Master, the Earl of Summerstoke, should deign to come see Anka. Use Anka. Summerstoke did give Anka some pleasure, always some pleasure, while he took his own. But, more than that, just his attention was an electric thing. His beautiful mouth, his tousled cropped hair. His eyes, a poison-green no one else had. His sudden, commanding laugh, and the care with which his lordship took everything, even Anka. </p><p>Anka had thought he was to someday be Summerstoke’s pet. But after he’d borne his first clutch, and had no more than a week or so to hold and love the babies that had been in his belly, Summerstoke had given him to the king. </p><p>Summerstoke had gained several advantages by that, both personal and political. He’d gained something like the king’s friendship. Anka had put Summerstoke on the map, and now the man was one of the great powers of the Monrovian court. </p><p>Anka was a critical part of the court as well, in an entirely different way. Anka did not have the king’s friendship, but he was the body that perpetually warmed the king’s cock. His second clutch had been the king’s clutch. The silver ring around his little cocklet bore the signet of the king. He wore velvet shifts now, instead of the rags he’d known nearly all his life, and gold rings in his pointed ears. He had emerald studded hoops in his nipples and cunt to match the green points of his ears, his nipples, his fingertips. The dryad-green veining on his white feet. </p><p>All dryads were like that. Green at the tips. Anka was green in more places now, too, an equally beautiful, especially vivid green in his cunt and arse. He’d been fucked so hard and so often that those holes were near-permanently flushed in a color that humans seemed to find highly attractive. </p><p>Now the king slapped his rump. Anka shifted forward. A thick finger inserted itself in his rear, and he obligingly shifted back so the king could feed him his prick again, this time to fuck into his arse. The stretch here was worse than his cunt, but this hole, too, had been trained to take it. </p><p>King Bardolph waved for the servants — there were always servants, and Anka had learned not to look at them or feel humiliated by their presence; they, like he, were here only to awaken at the needs of the king — to come get the cups and plates and utensils. As two blank-faced, professional maids cleaned up the bed, King Bardolph shifted himself so he could do the fucking.</p><p>Anka leaned forward on his forearms and felt the king start up a deep, fast rut. He forced that heavy rod into Anka’s back channel ruthlessly. Anka felt the fullness in a new way now, a way that overpowered him. His milk-heavy tits bounced with every thrust. His little cocklet, so hard it pained him, was really leaving smears of need on the satin sheets now. </p><p>He choked down the guttural sounds in his throat. The king didn’t like him to whine. He was to be a set of pliable holes that took what it was given, that was all. </p><p>“Damnit,” His Majesty said, after ten or twelve good tups into the body below him. “I’m bored, Anka. Got to fuck you so there’s something fun to fill the time. Every damn day gets more boring.”</p><p>Not twenty miles from his Majesty’s castle lay the slum of the Gin Tangle, where the molls, rag sellers, and workhouse orphans would have welcomed boredom, rather than the starvation and misery they faced each day. Anka knew this. But he didn’t say it. </p><p>“What else is there to do today but fuck you?” His Majesty complained. </p><p>“It’s night, your Majesty,” Anka said. “You slept through the council meeting.”</p><p>“Of course I did! It’s boring! Now squeeze a little harder, Anka. Make it good.”</p><p>Anka did as ordered, clenching and clenching around the cock prying him open. The king’s thrusts were hot, at least. Bardolph was a big, sweating man. For a dryad like Anka, that was almost a balm. Anka needed warmth. The cold flayed him, made him weak and miserable. So submitting himself to the pain of being forcefully fucked like this, so that a man’s hot belly blanketed his body and a man’s hot pole warmed him up inside, had a side benefit he had learned to be grateful for. </p><p>Though this was no ordinary man. The king’s secretary — a thin, frazzled old man who had agreed to stock the wardrobe with a few slates and some chalk so Elly could practice his letters after lessons — had had a few words with Anka about his Majesty’s obligations. </p><p>“There is another council meeting tomorrow morning, Majesty,” Anka bit out, trying to think past the cock fucking him well raw by now. “Summerstoke and T-Taverner have introduced a bill. The one they’ve all been arguing about for weeks. They have settled on l—language that pleases the majority. It needs only your Majesty’s approval to go forward. They will keep holding emergency meetings until they get it.”</p><p>“Damn!” the king swore again. Once again his slap to Anka’s bottom was so loud it made Elly jump. </p><p>“Th-the bill sits on the bedside table, Your Majesty,” Anka said. His hard little cock hurt almost as much as his arse now. He wished he could come. Summerstoke had restricted his cocklet as well, but he’d let Anka have his pleasure occasionally. The king never did. </p><p>“That thing is four hundred damn pages!” the King complained now. “I’m not reading that!”</p><p>“It’s one hundred and two,” Anka said. He had read the important parts once the king had fallen asleep, and the secretary had even been kind enough to answer a few questions about it. “It is a bill to employ persons who would otherwise be forced into the workhouse to instead deliver food to the Capitol slums as part of Your Majesty’s poor relief program.”</p><p>“My what?” demanded the king. He was hitting Anka’s abused backside with his balls at every thrust now. Close. Close to coming. </p><p>“It is a program that will make Your Majesty immeasurably popular with the poor. It will help them feed their children, and give them the tools to do honest work.”</p><p>And it had express provisions not to exclude inhumans like Anka. Like Anka’s child. Anka had read that and been so, so grateful. </p><p>“Lazy bastards. I have to make work for them?” the king demanded. “They’re making work for me with this damned bill!”</p><p>“If you sign it now,” Anka said, “You need not worry about the council meeting. We can do something f—fun all night and Your Majesty can sleep in t—tomorrow.”</p><p>These last thrusts were hard. All the fullness and heat couldn’t make up for the discomfort of being rammed so hard. But Anka’s cock was still reacting, still taking the pain as pleasure. The king’s meaty hand found it and mauled it, like the action helped him to think. Anka bit back a whine. </p><p>“W—we can go down to the new stables. To order a space made for the pony,” he told the king. “And Mr. Hollyhock can fill me up with eggs again, for a sn—snack, Your Majesty.”</p><p>Mr. Hollyhock was an Omnion who tended the royal horses. Like all Omnions, he had a strange undulating cock that spat out iridescent, slimy eggs. The king liked to see those eggs shot into Anka’s holes, at least thirty or forty at a time. Though keeping them inside him would make the dryad cramp horribly and be unsteady on his feet, after a few hours Anka would have them heated up well enough to push them right into the king’s plate, so Bardolph could savor the rare delicacy that was dryad-flavored Omnion. </p><p>“I’d like that,” the king said. “You’re a good whore, you are, Anka. Damn! Let’s get this bill out of the way. Damn! Damn!”</p><p>And more damns, again and again, because now he was coming, his hot spend spurting into Anka’s arse. </p><p>When he was done the king made Anka go still again, so he could sign the bill on Anka’s back while Anka’s cock ached and cum dribbled from both of Anka’s holes. </p><p>Anka bore it. He caught the eye of one of the maids now. Elsie, who he knew and was friends with. He nodded in the direction of Elly. </p><p>While he was taking Omnion cock, his child could at least be taken to the apartments of young Prince Edward to have a bath and a few lessons at his letters. Elly glanced up at the pretty maid that came for him, and obediently stood so she could lead him out of the room. </p><p>“Bye, mama,” he said quietly, very quietly. “Bye, Maj’sty.” He could scarcely be heard over Bardolph’s satisfied pants. </p><p>“Eh?” said Bardolph. “Oh, it’s your little elf.”</p><p>His thick hand twined itself in Anka’s dark hair as he shrewdly examined the retreating child, the veritable copy of Anka that he himself had accidentally sired alongside his human heir. He chuckled. </p><p>“Couldn’t see the damn point of you having that one when you had my Eddie, Anka. But now I do. Convenient, damned convenient. That one will make a nice toy for his brother someday, like you’re a nice little toy for me.”</p><p>-</p><p>The dryad washed up on the black, grimy rocks of the shore by the Gin Tangle. He laid there, coughing up water, feeling the pain of the salt in his wounds. He said a thanks to his cousins the D’nara for his survival. </p><p>He stood. He walked. He walked past trash-gatherers and rag-peddlers, human molls and inhuman beggars. He walked. At the Exeter Gate he stole some clothes: a shawl to wind about his head to cover his pointed ears, some trousers, some heavy shirts to try and keep the awful cold at bay. He walked and walked. He was dazed and weak but he knew the house he wanted, the fine lordly townhouse with the two columns holding up the portico and the crest of a wolf above the door. He walked. </p><p>He was probably a sight to the Monrovians, but he did not think of that because he did not care what Monrovians thought of him. So he just walked. The Tangle gave way to a slightly better area, then a marketplace, then a busy street by the law courts, then a street of very fine shops. </p><p>Then the green place, the nicest part of the city. Where the fine ladies promenaded. Here the dryad crept around by the backs of the houses, shivering, knowing he had to stay out of sight. </p><p>One of the houses was Allerton’s. The finest house. The house that did not even need to face the park, for it had its own park at the back, behind a very high wall. It had a cold terrace there, facing trees that were trapped, so trapped, in the private garden of the Duke of Allerton.</p><p>No, the dryad wanted nothing to do with that house.</p><p>The house he really wanted was this one here. Right here. This would be it. Though he stood in the back street reserved for coaches, horses, and servants, he knew this was the one. He could see the carved wolf in the cool grey stone above the back entrance. </p><p>He stumbled through that door. To his right was a busy kitchen. He could hear the voices of the servants. He stumbled past that. There was a back stair here — yes! A room on the first level above that, that would be Jem’s room. But Jem was not there, so the dryad stumbled on, into the fine hallways hung with portraits of Earls. </p><p>At the door to the wood-paneled study, the dryad saw him. It must have been six or seven years now, but Summerstoke looked the same. Very tall and broad with a cruel but handsome mouth, perfectly-coiffed cinnamon hair. Distinctive yellow-green eyes. </p><p>“Miss me, Robbie?” the dryad rasped out.</p><p>Then he collapsed. As he laid there in his pain and cold, half-dead, Summerstoke stared down at him. Those venom-colored eyes were wide and shocked. The dryad let out a hoarse giggle. He was fairly sure he was going to die, would not be able to do the things he needed to do. Despair colored whatever pain didn’t. But he still found a laugh, deep inside him. </p><p>He had always liked to shock Summerstoke — it was always funny. </p><p>“Covey?” Summerstoke said, reaching out to him with a long-fingered white hand. </p><p>“Yeah,” Kouvi managed, before he passed out. “Knew it. Knew you’d missed me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Wrollves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Summerstoke continues to make decisions for the dryads in his life; the King uses Anka at breakfast; an unexpected ally; one of Summerstoke’s fancies; Allerton’s peculiar taste in music.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If it wasn’t for the council meeting that morning, which Taverner had already confirmed would be a decided success over Allerton and thus not one to be missed, Summerstoke would have refused to leave Covey’s side. </p><p>Covey. Come back to him. Summerstoke had spent seven years assuming such a thing was flatly impossible. He’d felt the impossibility in a deep animal place inside him, a place that was hardly ever wrong about these things. </p><p>But this time it had been. Covey had returned. Much more battered than he had left. But returned. </p><p>Summerstoke had carried him to the Tulip Room, the sunniest guest room in the house, and gently laid him down as Jem went for Doctor Nenge. The doctor was an immigrant, a black-skinned Ordanian with experience treating the D’lani. There were a great many more dryads in warm Ordania than in cold Monrovia. </p><p>The injuries the doctor found were almost too horrible to contemplate. </p><p>“He is worse here,” the doctor reported, his touch on Covey’s privates thankfully both gentle and professional, “than even that poor little one I saw when—“</p><p>The doctor broke off. He was an intelligent man, and even if Summerstoke was always carefully controlled around him, as indeed Summerstoke was carefully controlled around almost everyone, the doctor knew by now what not to speak of around the Earl. </p><p>“Well. But this one has had his <i>pre-dinkala</i>. That is what has saved him. If he is transferred to a place with more light and air, he may recover yet.”</p><p>Covey was an adult dryad, well into his fifties. To a dryad, that was nothing. Dryads in D’laniaa could live to over two hundred. They had long childhoods of fifty years or so before they reached the <i>pre-dinkala</i>, the maturation that made them much stronger and tougher than their pretty, delicate child-selves. </p><p>This meant that Covey was tall now, nearly as tall as Summerstoke. Leanly-muscled. His jaw had firmed, and his green-tipped hands were the strong hands of a man. Though he was easily more than two decades older than the Earl, he did not look it. He looked like a young man still, which in dryad years he was. </p><p>Summerstoke had to leave him to get dressed for the council meeting, and to have Jem shave him. But he returned as soon as that was done, for just a few moments more looking at the dryad. </p><p>“Covey,” he said. Not to wake Covey. Doctor Nenge had said sleep was essential for Covey. But Summerstoke simply could not stop saying the name. Could not stop looking at him. </p><p>Covey was a true dryad, with the golden hair, warm brown skin, and clear blue eyes that all his people were supposed to have. And in his own way he was quite the most beautiful dryad Summerstoke had ever known. </p><p>Save one. </p><p>“Covey,” Summerstoke said again, reaching for the strong brown hand on the coverlet. He stroked it gently. He did not feel it his right to do more, not these days. “My Covey.”</p><p>Covey cracked open a perfect sky-blue eye, though the other one was still blackened and swollen shut. </p><p>“I’ve told you a thousand times, you worthless Monrovian son of a bitch,” he rasped out, his D’lani accent thick. “It’s <i>Kouvi</i>.”</p><p>Summerstoke blinked. </p><p>“I am sending you to the country.”</p><p>“Like fuck you are, fucker. I need your help with something.”</p><p>“Yes,” Summerstoke said, short about it. “Healing. You will do better in the country.”</p><p>“You overbearing sack of shit, I’m telling you that I have business here, you mongrel dog’s crotch-dropping, you over-furred halfwit jumped-up Monrovian <i>fuck</i>—“</p><p>Summerstoke took the berating with a curl of his lip that he simply could not help. He was not used to such treatment. But he kept his hand resting on Covey’s hand. </p><p>At one point Jem wandered in, attracted by the cursing. It made him grin around his Wrollf’s tusks. Jem tended to hate people who deferred easily to Summerstoke, which indeed was most people, and to reserve his steadfast loyalty and adoration for those who demonstrated a willingness to try the Earl. He had always loved Covey because Covey had generally found a means of trying Summerstoke daily. </p><p>“H’lo, Covey.”</p><p>“—you shit-stuffed lapdog that can’t fucking lick its own arse without a servant to help — h’lo, Jem — you randy spoiled mutt born of a wolf’s fucking piss-stream, if you don’t help me I swear to the leaves and the vines I will fucking tell everyone what you really are, I’ll let them know your mother tupped a goddamned fucking cocker spaniel to make you—“</p><p>“You will tell no one I am half-Wrollf,” Summerstoke said, beginning to get annoyed now despite his better instincts, “because you will be in the country, where there is hardly anyone. Jem will take you himself.”</p><p>“Sorry, Covey,” Jem said.</p><p>“You fucking — s’alright, Jem — parlor-trained whoremongering poodle—“</p><p>And on and on, in that fashion. Jem was openly laughing by the time Summerstoke had to leave for the council meeting. But Jem would do as ordered. Covey was only Jem’s friend. Summerstoke was Jem’s brother. If Summerstoke told Jem to drug Covey today, get him in a carriage, and get him out of the city at once, Jem would do it. </p><p>Good thing Summerstoke had told his brother to do that this very morning.</p><p>Jem and Summerstoke's mother, the wife of the tenth Earl, had borne two sons of their Wrollf father, Urk. The tenth Earl, who’d been impotent but never known it, had mistaken the human child for his own. No one had ever thought to correct him on this count. Indeed, when his pretty Irvidistani second wife had borne a daughter of Urk, also mistaken for a full-blooded human, everyone had simply gone on not correcting him. </p><p>This had worked out very well for Urk, who was by now the trusted steward of the remote country district of Summerstoke. And for his three children — not just Jem, who had a good position in service to his brother; but also winsome Geraldine; and of course Robert, the current Summerstoke. </p><p>Before he left for the council meeting, he wrote his father a hurried letter explaining, in coded language, the doctor’s recommendations for Covey. Urk, he knew, would be pleased to see the dryad. </p><p>Urk had always liked Covey too. </p><p>-</p><p>Mr. Hollyhock fucked Anka full of forty or so eggs, and while they toured the vast complex of the new stables — just erected where Castle Voliere had once used to abut a slum that the King had ordered cleared to make more space for his horses — Anka painfully held them in and got them good and ready for a candlelit meal. </p><p>The king took that meal on the broad western balcony of the castle. Anka shivered in the night air and pushed the eggs out around the pain in his guts. The king speared and sucked down every one, the juices of the eggs crackling on his tongue. </p><p>After that he fucked Anka's arse again, then made Anka warm his filthy cock in his mouth. Then fucked Anka again. </p><p>So the king passed a delightful night, and Anka a less delightful one. </p><p>It was about seven in the morning when Anka was released from service. The king had just dropped into slumber, snoring so loud the sound seemed to shake his massive body. Anka checked the side table for any papers from Lord Taverner or the secretary, but found none beyond the already-approved poverty relief bill. In the corner by the wardrobe, his friend Elsie the maid had left him some food. A meat stew and some greens. The stew sat too heavy on Anka’s stomach, but the cook had sent it up anyway.</p><p>“Pretty thing like you needs to keep your strength up, Anka,” he’d said meaningfully, just before he’d bent his grizzled old head to drink direct from Anka’s tits. He'd stroke himself to completion as he did it. He always told Anka he liked to save his cum up just so the dryad could kneel down and take it on his waiting green tongue.</p><p>Anka was usually sent to the kitchens so his tangy-sweet dryad’s milk could be used to flavor the king’s tarts and puddings. But often he let the cook have some as well, let the cook spend on him if he wanted, in a shadowy part of the pantry where no one could see them. </p><p>This guaranteed that, even while preparing vast meals for the great, busy hive of the court, no one on the kitchen staff would forget that they also had to watch for Elly. They had to look out for Elly should the child take one of his wandering moods and end up gnawing too-hot tarts in the pantry. The pantry was usually one of Elly’s favored destinations. </p><p>That twisted something in Anka — he’d been a mindless thing in search of anything to beat back his hunger, once. He didn’t want Elly behaving the same way. So these days, Anka invariably also asked that the cook leave a tray three times a day in the corner for his child. Anka had been raised never knowing if he’d have three meals a week, let alone three a day. But Elly would at least not ever live like that. He had food at lessons and food for him by the wardrobe. An abundance of food. </p><p>And sometimes the cook would stick a finger or two in Anka, or even play with the little bead above his cunt. Not often— the bells Anka usually wore would make it too obvious what they were doing. But sometimes. Sometimes Anka would get rubbed off that way, quick and rough, down in the castle pantry. </p><p>He had learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Now he forced down the stew and then turned to the more palatable greens. Just a small plate of them — the cook didn’t trust that lettuces could really be sustenance for anybody — but there was sweet D’laniaa junglegrass, which was grown in the palace greenhouses and kept him from swelling up with a third clutch no matter how often he was fucked. That tasted marvelous to him. And edible Irvidistani nasturtiums, which kept him in milk. Those were not too heavy. </p><p>The little strawberries on the side of the plate he reserved for Elly. He scooped them up and went to the wardrobe, where Elly was quietly playing with his beloved stuffed Wrollf by the light of a single stubby candle. Anka climbed in and blew it out. </p><p>“Mama,” Elly complained. </p><p>“Shhh,” said Anka. “It’s bedtime. Did you do your lessons?”</p><p>“Yes. M. A. M. A. Spells mama. E. L. E. Y. I,” Elly said. “Spells Elly. I did lessons and I played. Then I came back. Then I practiced.”</p><p>He showed Anka his slate, with the letters on it on chalk. </p><p>‘Elly’ wasn’t how a true D’lani would say the child’s name. But Anka wasn’t a true D’lani either. He’d been born and raised in Monrovia. He was black-haired and dark-eyed and too pale and too tolerant of the cold to be a real D’lani. He was only a mutant of some kind. D’lani sat as awkwardly on his tongue as it did on Elly’s. But he was proud at Elly for knowing how the name really should be spelled. </p><p>He kissed Elly once, twice, three times, making the child giggle. Then he offered Elly the strawberries. Elly took them as his due, eating them at once, even the top of them with the little green leaves. Just the way Anka ate them. Then Anka pulled the heavy covers over them, making a warm nest like they both needed, and curled around each other they fell asleep. </p><p>Sometimes he fell into a dream -- a dark-haired lady and a golden-haired brother. Then if he wasn't careful his arms would tighten around Elly, enough to make Elly squirm and wake the child. That was a thing Anka could not help, but he tried to help it.</p><p>Sometimes he startled awake himself and realized he was humming to Elly. That was another thing he could not help. He’d done it to his first clutch, too. But he’d learned to force himself awake long enough to stop, because it always annoyed the king. </p><p>So he drifted in and out of sleep. And, at around noon, which was not enough time for the king to get a good rest at all, a luckless servant came in and had to wake him anyway. The Countess of Salford was demanding that the king appear at luncheon for once. </p><p>“Bloody fucking <i>Hermia</i>!” the king roared tiredly. “Always thinks she can tell me what to bloody do! Anka! Get over here, bitch!”</p><p>So today it would be a bad day. </p><p>Anka had hardly any time to prepare himself, to get a clean velvet smock on, wash his face with the pitcher and bowl Elsie left him, and try to comb his hair. He was as bleary-eyed as His Majesty by the time they both arrived in the palace’s cold marble breakfast room. </p><p>There, King Bardolph grabbed Anka by the scruff of the neck and shoved him under the table. He sat in his great chair. Anka dutifully undid his trousers, and began to stroke his prick the way the king liked. Bardolph was very particular about how Anka was to serve his pole in this position. As he started up the initial strokes, the huge veiny prick firming up in his thin hands, Anka leaned forward and pressed an obedient kiss to each side of the ballsack that would be feeding him his breakfast. </p><p>“Really?” Hermia Lanyon, the Countess of Salford, was saying. “Must you bring your perversions to lunch? Edward is here.” </p><p>“I’m the king, dammit!” Bardolph roared, hitting the polished wood table so hard the sound reverberated in Anka’s ears. “And the boy will have to learn to be a man someday, with a man’s enjoyments.”</p><p>“Edward,” the Countess said icily, “is four. And has spent a month without seeing his father. Once a month, we agreed, you would at least have lunch with Edward. And he has something he is proud of that he would like to show you. Edward, please go on.”</p><p>His Royal Highness Prince Edward Randolph Everett Hampshire V, the High Duke of Damerel, also known as Edward or occasionally Eddie, took a deep breath. </p><p>Anka, without stopping in his task of rubbing the king, turned a bit. He could see Edward in a chair a ways down the table, or at least Edward’s plump little legs in their fine navy trousers. Edward was kicking them to and fro as if he were anxious. </p><p>“Father,” the prince said seriously. “I can spell my name now.”</p><p>“Huh,” said Bardolph. “Toy, get your mouth on it.”</p><p>Anka tore his eyes away from the prince and leaned forward, taking the tip of the big cock in his mouth. It was as sweaty and sour as it always was, but at least hot on his tongue. He gave the head some good wet sucks while Edward spoke, getting his tongue into it. </p><p>“Would you like to hear, father?” Edward said nervously. </p><p>“Huh,” said the king. “Deeper, you little tart.”</p><p>Anka obediently took down a bit more, sucking in earnest now. He could hear the king moving his fork about and chewing loudly above him as Anka sucked. The hard prick was almost too thick for his mouth. It always was. </p><p>“Perhaps you could try using a yes or a no, Your Majesty,” the Countess of Salford was now saying frostily. “We do expect that basic courtesy of Edward, and it would be good for him to see that his father is in fact capable of basic courtesy.”</p><p>“Oh, go boil your head, Hermia,” the king said irritably. “Eddie, spell the damn name then.” </p><p>Edward took another deep breath.  </p><p>“The damn is not necessary,” Anka could hear the Countess telling him, in a lower register. “So you do not ever repeat that, please. Now, dear, go on.”</p><p>“E,” Edward began. “D. W. A. R. D. Edward. I haven’t got the other parts yet, father, because they’re too long and I get tired. But I know at the end there’s a V.”</p><p>Even though the king now had a hand in his hair and was forcing him to take his cock deeper, Anka was proud. As proud as he’d been of Elly. He held onto that pride. He couldn’t be proud of himself, not really. He was a whore with a cock in his dirty throat. But he could be proud of his children, his clutch. The only clutch he’d ever get to see grow to adulthood someday. </p><p>To Eddie, the king only said, “Huh.” Then, to Anka, “Want you choking on it. Like that. They woke me up too damn early for this nonsense, the least I can have is a good suck now.”</p><p>Anka sucked, the great prick making him struggle to catch a breath. The king’s large hand was still making him bob on it, painfully forcing him to take it while the king now thrust in his chair to fuck Anka’s mouth. Such a hard fuck that Anka’s throat hurt. The king’s belly was hitting the table and, it sounded like, making the fine plates and crystal glasses jump. </p><p>“And that V is?” the Countess was prompting, a little too loud so Edward wouldn’t hear what the king was saying or notice the dancing plates and cutlery. </p><p>“That’s a five,” Edward said, very seriously. “I like that number. I’m going to be five in May, father.”</p><p>“Thought your birthday was in April,” the king grunted. </p><p>“Oh, no, father,” Edward said. “It’s in May. Do you know what I want for my birthday?” </p><p>“Huh,” was all the king said. </p><p>But then perhaps he was breathing too hard to say much else. His cock was slamming into the back of Anka’s throat now, bringing tears to Anka’s eyes. Anka hoped desperately that Bardolph would come soon. He really couldn’t breathe now. The king had made him pass out a few times like this. Anka did not want to pass out in front of Edward. </p><p>He’d done it with Elly there in the king’s bedroom a few times. But never Edward. </p><p>“That’s right, get down to the balls,” the King said. There was the sound of the door to the breakfast room opening. “Get your chin in them. Oh — Allerton, m’boy.”</p><p>It took every ounce of Anka’s will not to still, not to go paralyzed. To keep sucking and sucking, as the king had ordered him. </p><p>He heard the scrape of a chair and then Charles Lanyon, the Duke of Allerton and the scourge of all Monrovia’s inhumans, was sitting at the table. </p><p>“Good to see you’re doing well, my liege,” he said, in a voice as cold as that of his sister, the Countess. “I’ve just come from this morning’s council meeting. You signed that poverty relief bill?”</p><p>“What?” said the King. “Good, bitch. I’m close now. Play with the balls now.”</p><p>Anka obeyed, gently massaging the heavy sack even while his throat spasmed around the king’s cock. </p><p>“Why did you sign it, sir?” Allerton said. </p><p>“Charles,” said the Countess, sounding exasperated. “Must we talk politics? This is a family luncheon for Edward.”</p><p>“That thing under the table isn’t family,” Allerton said, immediate and absolute. “There’s a lesson for Edward.”</p><p>A chill, a terrible silence fell over part of the table. Only the sounds of the king throatfucking Anka broke it. Anka tried to blink back tears. </p><p>He wasn’t tearing up because of the cock in his throat. </p><p>The king gave a grunt. His hand snarled itself up even more in Anka’s hair, holding Anka in place. Then he was coming. Anka drank it down, and when the softening prick finally slid out of his mouth he mouthed the air a bit, trying to get the taste out. </p><p>Trying to get the whole day out. Allerton’s words hurt, never mind that he’d voiced his opinion on Anka’s role in the prince’s life twenty or more times before. But Allerton was perfectly correct. That was why Anka had to brush away the tears. Allerton was not wrong. Anka had borne a clutch of two, and one was human, and the king had formally legitimized that human and made him his heir. So Edward was a prince, and that was good. That was a good thing. </p><p>Above him, the king was now saying, “Now, I won’t talk any damn politics. You know it bores me. Summerstoke never talks politics with me. Summerstoke sits down and is damned decent. And he never wakes me up before three. You two are my cousins and you do this to me— I’ve half a mind to ask Summerstoke to come tour my new stables, instead of you, m’boy—“</p><p>Allerton took in a long, long breath, the same sort of steadying breath Edward had earlier. </p><p>“Of course, my king,” he said. “Forgive me. New stables? How grand. I should love to see them.”</p><p>The king perked up. His fat hand slapped Anka’s face until Anka stopped crying and tucked his prick back in his trousers for him. </p><p>“Good! Good! Be nice to tour ‘em by day! Been a while since I was up in the day, all this sunshine is bloody trying, Hermia ought to have closed the damned drapes—“</p><p>And he was off with Allerton. As the two men exited the room, Anka heard Allerton say, doggedly, “But about that disgraceful provision in the poverty relief bill, the one to do with inhumans—“</p><p>He didn’t let his heart sink at that. He rubbed at his face and got himself presentable, and didn’t let his heart sink. Taverner had told him he only needed to do what he could, and the rest he and Anka’s old master would handle. </p><p>So, when the tears were all rubbed off, Anka simply sighed and turned again to admire Edward’s strong little legs. </p><p>He was getting big, Edward. Big and healthy. That was good. Elly was still so small. </p><p>“I was only going to tell him I wanted a pony,” Edward said sadly. </p><p>“Darling, I shall get you a pony if he doesn’t,” the Countess said. “And remember — you already have a pony. Some children have no ponies.”</p><p>“But I need two, Cousin Hermia!” Edward cried. “The other one’s for Elly.”</p><p>Then, a half-second later: “Why is Cousin Charles like that? He won’t even let Elly live in our apartments. And it’s only Anka.”</p><p>The Countess did not respond. But she did flip up the blue silk tablecloth and poke her exquisitely coiffed head under it. At this, so did Edward, who was sitting next to her. Edward was fair like she was, like the king, and wore his expressions — his rage, his frustration, his joy — as plainly as she and the king did. Right now he wore a tiny but genuine smile. </p><p>So did the Countess. </p><p>“Are you alright, Anka?” she asked. “You can come up now. I’ve saved you some of the greens.”</p><p>-</p><p>Anka had been terribly afraid of Hermia Lanyon at first. </p><p>He had never heard good things about her. She was not popular. She was a sharp-tongued woman when she could be, and vicious about getting what she wanted. The men of the peerage (and indeed it was the men who had taught Anka most everything he knew about the peerage, while they’d been pawing his arse and fucking into his cunt) found her domineering, belittling approach to them to be demeaning, and improper for her sex. Five years ago she had had a disastrous and short-lived marriage to the king, brokered by her brother, and when the king had announced that he was going to raise up the just-sired Edward as his heir and divorce the Countess, a great many lords and fine gentlemen had reveled in her social downfall. </p><p>But she was not a woman to be easily defeated. Within a week of Edward and Elly’s birth, she had returned to the Castle, undeterred by the sneers and whispers of the court. </p><p>“I took charge of raising Charles, though I was fifteen when he was born and mother died,” she’d told the king, point-blank. “You could hand your heir over to nurses and secretaries who see him merely as an obligation, or you could permit me the great honor of making him the prince Monrovia needs.”</p><p>Even the king had to admit that she had raised Allerton to be formidable. He had assented, and Hermia Lanyon had promptly moved into Castle Voliere again. The king had decreed she was only ever to have a say in matters to do with the prince. Outside of that sphere no one was to listen to her at all, so her power was limited and in many circles she was still held to be something of a disgrace. But she did her duty by Edward. </p><p>She was barren. She could have no child but the fair-haired prince, who it must be said bore a remarkable resemblance, by way of the king, to both her and to Allerton. The tall blonde Countess could have passed for Edward’s mother. Sometimes Anka thought Edward assumed she was that, and, though the thought pained him, still he was grateful for the love and attention she gave the child. </p><p>And Elly. Now the Countess had him in her lap by the window in her and Edward’s apartments, where Elly took meals and lessons daily whenever Allerton was not around to interfere. She was saying, “Let me see that! A Wrollf? Oh, Eleyi, that is a horrid creature. No, no!” </p><p>And with a wave of her hand she had a servant there bearing a new stuffed bear. Elly looked at it with wonder. It was a silky, large bear, as big as Elly, and the child watched with a bit of consternation as she swapped it for the Wrollf, gently tugging his older toy from his hands. </p><p>She tossed the Wrollf on the floor. Elly looked at her, then looked at Edward, who was playing with a wooden horse next to the fallen Wrollf. </p><p>Edward's black eyes looked at it shrewdly. Then he took his horse and banged it on the Wrollf.</p><p>“Bam! Bam! I’m Lord Taverner and I’m beating you, you Norderlander dog!”</p><p>Elly quietly slid down the Countess’ sage-colored skirts, still clutching the bear. With solemn eyes, he pulled his beloved Wrollf out from under Edward and clutched it to his breast, though his little arms could scarcely hold both toys. </p><p>The Countess let out a breath. “Honestly, Eleyi. Who gave you that atrocious thing?” </p><p>“Lord Tav’ner,” Elly said solemnly. </p><p>Edward suddenly looked stricken. He pulled his hand back from his wooden horse as if he regretted ever touching it. </p><p>Lord Taverner, the great general, was the hero of all Monrovia and most especially the hero of little boys. He had won endless campaigns in D’laniaa, Irvidistan, Ordania, and even in the Wrollf-riddled Norderlands, expanding the boundaries of Monrovia’s great empire and making every corner of the earth safe for the nation’s Royal Exploration Company. </p><p>But the Countess only rolled her eyes. </p><p>“That man wins a few wars and everyone thinks he’s a god. Including him. I could win a war or two, but they’ve never let me.”</p><p>Anka smiled at the line of wooden horses and soldiers he was assembling for Prince Edward. Lord Taverner, he knew, did not think he was a god. Lord Taverner was perhaps the most humble and yet the greatest man he had ever met. But as the Countess was one of the greatest women, he held his peace. </p><p>It was the Countess who regularly taught him and Elly and even Prince Edward D’lani. She spoke it flawlessly and they always stumbled. It was the Countess who gave Anka books on diction and politics and history. She had schooled him in the ins and outs of the house of Hampshire (nearly every king and prince of the main line killed in two centuries of battle with the Norderlander Wrollves, save Bardolph, who had refused to fight Monrovia’s ancestral enemy and sent Taverner to do it instead). The Countess saved up Edward’s cast-offs for Elly, and reserved toys for the D’lani child as well. </p><p>The Countess had even given Anka a book on D’laniaa, a heavy and valuable tome she had clearly read again and again herself and was loath to part with. She had taught him to haltingly read enough D'lani to understand the story of Eleyi Who Welcomed the Sea. The Countess had agreed with him that this — this was the name for the nameless, helpless little infant that the king did not want and the court did not care about, that no one wanted save Anka. </p><p>It was the Countess who had convinced Bardolph to let Anka keep Elly, rather than selling the child off to a wealthy Monrovian who might want their own D’lani pet. In so doing, despite her connection to Allerton, she had earned Anka’s undying fealty. </p><p>Now she muttered, to herself more than Anka or the children, “I can’t abide Wrollves. They’re foul. Father had a lovely clutch of dryads, back when that was popular, and the Wrollves he’d hire to — to—“</p><p>She broke off. </p><p>“Well,” she said. “That’s best not spoken of.”</p><p>Anka said, as gentle as he could make it, “And did the men treat my kind any better, my lady?”</p><p>The Countess flushed. But she was not a woman ever really cowed in anything, so as Edward and Elly played with the bear and Wrollf, the wooden horses abandoned, she said, “It’s not the same thing, dear. Wrollves have no women, you know. They capture the women of other races to breed themselves children, which makes them rapists all, as part of their nature. They revel in causing that pain even more than the Eelies do. They’re not like <i>your</i> innocent race. </p><p>“And neither a dryad nor a man would ever really betray its people. Wrollves do, all the time. Even Charles has Wrollves in his pocket that will take his coin and deliver him their own kind to make an example of. They are honorless, Anka. Taverner should have thought before giving Eleyi such a thing.”</p><p>Anka blinked. He filed away the information about Allerton having Wrollf informants to tell Taverner later. The Countess rarely let slip any facts about her brother, but when she did they were invariably correct. </p><p>- </p><p>Later, the king called for him again. Anka had to leave his children with the Countess, Edward struggling to learn his whole name and Elly being fed a bowl of greens which the Countess insisted were better for him than what the cook gave him. Anka was quite sure that, were it not for the king curbing her power with staff and Allerton limiting the time she could spend with the child, the Countess would have taken charge of the all the royal greenhouses to see Elly fed his greens. </p><p>He focused on that as he hurried through the castle halls. Not on how the footman that had summoned him had said, “He’s in the gardens, by the orangerie. He wants you to bring the whip, Anka.”</p><p>Generally, Anka clenching around the king was enough for Bardolph. But today was a bad day. And maybe today Allerton had told the king something about the new bill that Anka had convinced him to sign, something that would make him angry with Anka. </p><p>Sometimes, very rarely, the king wanted Anka’s cunt puffy and bleeding. So swollen that the tightness was exquisite for him, and agony for Anka. He’d lash and lash the dryad before fucking him, make Anka lie with his legs spread so he could get him right on his cunt. </p><p>But that was only on the worst days. Anka prayed today was not a worst day. At the wardrobe, he pulled open the lower drawers and took out the whip. He took out the bells too, because the king liked the way the bells rang when he beat Anka. Then Anka hurried to the orangerie. No time to stop and switch the bells for his studded piercings — he would have to do it on the way, so as to not delay further and so make Bardolph angry. </p><p>The quickest way to the orangerie was through the public receiving halls. This meant that Anka switching in his tit bells, with his smock flipped up and his long legs bare, his belly and privates exposed, passed a great many Monrovians. A few were shocked, but only a very few. The king had by now fucked him in enough council meetings and at enough public dinners that most of the lords regularly in attendance at court either paid him no mind or contented themselves with a leer. Anka, for his part, had long stopped feeling humiliated by their gazes on him. He had learned to go a little blank. </p><p>But he wasn’t watching where he was going. As he passed out of the main receiving rooms and into the back warren of rooms where the members of the high council held private meetings, he collided with someone. </p><p>Someone tall, and very broad. Though Anka had grown since coming to court, they still had a head on him. His remaining bells fell from his hands and tinkled on the floor, and he would have fallen if a strong pair of hands hadn’t grabbed him to prevent that. </p><p>“Anka,” Summerstoke said. </p><p>Anka could only stare at him for a moment. </p><p>In five years, the Earl of Summerstoke had grown no less handsome. Though he was now a bit past thirty and clearly sleeping far less these days, busy as he was with running the Capitol for the king, he still had the perfect mouth he’d once kissed Anka with, the bright yellow-green eyes Anka remembered so well. He also now had a shock of white along one side of his tousled cinnamon hair. Anka blinked. The last time he’d run into Summerstoke, a few months ago, Summerstoke had not had that. </p><p>Anka wanted to touch it, see if it was soft. Summerstoke was half-Wrollf, a secret Anka suspected could destroy him, a secret Anka would rather die than use against him. This meant that when Summerstoke wished to he could alter himself, give himself Wrollf characteristics. Mostly he’d done this to get a big painful Wrollf cock to fuck Anka with, because in his twenties the Earl had been that sort of man. But the Wrollf change had also made him hairier, spread a snarl of cinnamon hair over his chest and thighs and arms. On good nights he’d held Anka, and that hair had been so warm and soft. </p><p>“I — you’re taller,” the Earl said. “You’ve grown even more.” Then his gaze fell on the whip Anka was holding. He breathed out, hard. </p><p>“I can distract him,” he said quickly. “I—I’ll go with you, have a laugh with him. Get him in a better mood, Anka.”</p><p>Though Anka didn’t know who Summerstoke was now, if indeed he ever had known, in rare moments like this, when they met just like this, he could believe that his old Master was no longer the man he had been in his twenties. No longer the man that had blended kindness and pain until Anka could scarcely tell the difference between them, the man that had whored Anka out to the peerage. That had trained Anka to go wet just hearing Summerstoke’s deep, elegant voice. </p><p>He was going wet now. </p><p>But he ignored that. Summerstoke had also taught him how to ignore his own pleasure. </p><p>“Has the council ratified the implementation of the bill?” he asked Summerstoke instead. “The poverty relief bill?”</p><p>If they had, it would be more difficult for Bardolph to rescind his approval. So difficult Bardolph would likely give up. </p><p>Summerstoke blinked. </p><p>“I was just going to call the ratification now,” he said. </p><p>Anka let out a little sigh of relief. </p><p>“Go do it,” he advised. “The king has been walking with Allerton all afternoon.”</p><p>Summerstoke nodded. He understood. He let go of Anka and that was that. Anka was not likely to feel those warm hands again on him for months, if ever. But as Summerstoke began to walk away he stopped, reached down to gather something from the ground. </p><p>Anka’s bells. </p><p>He turned around again to face Anka, but did not immediately hold them out. </p><p>“Right. He likes these in you.”</p><p>Was his lordship’s voice unsteady? With Summerstoke, Anka could never tell. Summerstoke could dissemble better than most men. But the Earl took a step towards Anka again and now said, “May I help? We’ll get them on faster.”</p><p>Anka knew he should say no. He knew it. But he wanted to feel those hands again. Summerstoke had often been cruel. But he had such beautiful, long-fingered, warm hands. </p><p>Anka tugged up the edge of his smock. </p><p>Summerstoke’s hands did not maul or linger, as he swapped in Anka’s cock and cunt piercings. He did not take the chance to shove any fingers in Anka, as some might have. He did not torment the cocklet that they both knew couldn’t come. He was just — gentle.  Attentive to the task. He even blew on the bell piercings before he put them in, so the metal wouldn’t be so cold for Anka. His hands were soft presses of heat, so soft, softer than anything Anka ever got from anyone else. </p><p>He didn’t comment on the wetness. Just carefully tugged Anka’s smock down again. </p><p>He looked like he wanted to do more. But Anka knew he couldn’t. </p><p>“Go, my lord,” Anka said. “The bill.”</p><p>So Summerstoke turned on his heel and left. That was it. That was all. </p><p>But the Anka that reached the orangerie felt bowled-over and empty, empty in a place that did not seem like it could be filled. He wanted to think on Summerstoke but knew he couldn’t. He dropped to his knees before the king.</p><p>The king was eating an orange and leafing through a heavy leatherbound volume. Bardolph called it his bad day book, because it contained things the king generally used to lift his spirits on days he was unhappy. But it wasn’t meant to be that. </p><p>Summerstoke and Taverner had once, three years ago, succeeded in passing a bill for the abolition of the private ducal guard. Allerton’s personal police force had been disbanded, and his gaols remanded to Summerstoke's municipal police. Allerton now had to conduct most of his business out of the castle with the castle guard, or by calling in the Royal Exploration Company. </p><p>In retaliation for this demotion, Allerton had used the last days of his personal guard to publicly expose Celeste Rivenhall, the bastard daughter of Taverner and a woman known to be Summerstoke’s friend. She was more than a friend. She was also the brothel madam that had helped Summerstoke train Anka. Mistress Rivenhall had fled to foreign climes, and Allerton had delivered to the king her personal record book, a book which contained detailed logs of every perversion committed upon and by her inhuman whores. Including perversions devised and executed by Summerstoke — not that anyone knew that. Mistress Rivenhall had never named and shamed her clients in the book, as she did her whores. </p><p>Still, as Summerstoke had gifted Anka to the king, and as Anka was in the book, it stood to reason that Summerstoke had to be one of the nameless, coded men that Mistress Rivenhall painstakingly described taking Anka apart and destroying what little dignity the dryad had had left at that point. </p><p>But Allerton had misjudged the king. Most of the things in the book only increased the king’s admiration for Summerstoke. </p><p>Today he picked one of his favorite little fancies. He had Anka pull off his smock and ride his filthy boots, still dirty from the stables. He had the dryad fuck into them harshly to make his cunt bells ring. While Anka did this, the king lashed his tits. Lashed them so hard his tit bells sang and ribbons of green blood sprang up. </p><p>Summerstoke had enjoyed this too. Enjoyed it greatly. Anka bit back the wails in his throat and endured it, endured the cold, the painful hits to his chest. The way he was still fucking himself halfway to orgasm like an animal, by grinding the dirt of the stables into his own cunt. </p><p>Summerstoke had innovated this. Anka needed to remember that. Handsome as he was, kind as he could be, Summerstoke was precisely the sort of Wrollf the Countess had been talking about. He reveled in causing pain. Anka was just so stupid that half the time he forgot that. </p><p>-</p><p>After the ratification, His Royal Highness the Duke of Allerton visited the prisoner. </p><p>He had to hold his prisoners in the castle keep these days. Luckily, Castle Voliere was an ancient structure, and as vast as its lord. It had been built on and built on over the years. The keep was the oldest and deepest part of the castle, far away from the hive that housed most of its inhabitants. It was very secure, and from here no one could hear the screams. </p><p>Not that the damned Wrollf was screaming anymore. He was a big, ugly brute, his thatch of platinum braids and his platinum beard smeared with mud and blood. One of his tusks had been broken off, and both of his eyes were swollen nearly shut. He tried to attack anyone that came near him, despite being laden down with chains. Luckily, Allerton had a lot of chains. </p><p>It had been a trying day for Allerton. He needed to feel better. He stepped close to the Wrollf. What he would say now would be an affirmation for him as much as a taunt for the beast that had, for months, tormented the Royal Exploration Company. </p><p>“I’ve been informed that we have one less inhuman in the world, thanks to our efforts at capturing you,” Allerton told him. “The dryad they took when they took you has committed suicide. Drowned itself in the cold of the river.”</p><p>Perhaps that dryad could swim — that was an important detail, how some of them could now swim — but it was bound to freeze in the waters, so Allerton wasn’t too worried about it surviving. </p><p>After he delivered the news of its death, he stepped back and listened. As, far above the keep, the king enjoyed the sound of tinkling bells, now Allerton enjoyed the Wrollf’s unhinged howls of grief. </p><p>This was Allerton’s preferred song.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Was this chapter filthy enough? 🤔 The plot continues to overtake the filth. I will rectify it next chapter, which takes us back to “The Switch”-level perversions. Sorry to Anka in advance.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Eleyi Who Welcomed the Wrollf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Summerstoke reels from seeing Anka; Bardolph's boredom; Anka fucks a Demon; Elly loses his wrollf and gains a new one.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the success of the poverty relief bill, Summerstoke had meant to call a brief recess. Long enough to get out of the city and follow Covey to the country, where he could personally ensure that all of Doctor Nenge’s instructions were being followed to the hilt. </p><p>But seeing Anka threw that off. Seeing Anka always threw him off. The dryad had been beautiful when Summerstoke had given him away, and was even more beautiful now. Though still decades away from his <i>pre-dinkala</i> by Summerstoke’s estimate, Anka had grown graceful and tall for his age. The green on his fingers and feet had acquired innumerable shades, shades and tints to be found nowhere else in Monrovia. </p><p>And he was so brave now. He won them decisive victories like the poverty relief bill, he watched carefully for any sign that Allerton was trying to destroy Summerstoke's efforts to improve the Monrovia. Anka never hesitated when it came to thwarting Allerton. </p><p>He no longer looked at Summerstoke, even, with anything like fear. </p><p>He had once. And Summerstoke, damn him, had enjoyed that fear. Angry and grieving and guilty over how Covey had left him, he’d resolved to master the next dryad he met so brutally and absolutely that Anka would fear him and love him at the same time. And he’d accomplished that. Anka, barely more than a child at the time, had sobbed when Summerstoke forced him to ride his massive Wrollf’s cock, and flushed with humiliation when Summerstoke pissed on him like the boy was little more than a dog. </p><p>But he had taken it and thanked Summerstoke for it anyway. After so many years whoring himself in the Gin Tangle, Anka would have done anything for anyone who paired his domination with the occasional soft caress. Anka, Summerstoke knew now, had fallen in love with him. He’d always known it, perhaps. And he’d delighted in it not because of the precious gift it was, but because so long as Anka loved him Anka could not cast him aside as Covey had. He, meanwhile, could continue to brutalize the boy and so pretend he had no care for Anka. </p><p>But he did. Now he knew he did. All it took was a glimpse of Anka down some corridor, or the familiar tinkle of a bell from a room behind one of the castle doors. Summerstoke’s mind would go blank but for Anka. He called the ratification but processed none of it. He could swear his fingers tingled where he had touched Anka’s soft, trim form, helped the boy prepare himself for a defilement that would likely go no better than the ones Summerstoke had pressed on him once. </p><p>Anka had been so flushed, so abused in his private places. Summerstoke had done that, too. Made him take it so hard and so often that he never closed up the way a dryad should, all so the flesh there would go a magnificent, blood-engorged green. He knew that color well. And it told him that Anka, for all his new fearlessness, still lived with daily despoilment.   </p><p>No. Call it what it was and had always been. Rape. Daily rape. </p><p>So now, in the carriage home, Summerstoke could do nothing but massage his temples and hate himself. </p><p>“You’re not enjoying our win,” noted Taverner. Taverner was Summerstoke’s mentor and these days perhaps his closest friend. Summerstoke was lucky to know him, lucky that the great general had partnered with him both politically and socially. </p><p>But he only said, “I saw him, John.”</p><p>“Ah,” said Taverner. </p><p>There was no need to explain who. Taverner knew. Taverner had been the man to knock Summerstoke flat and explain to him just how unmanly, how despicable, his conduct towards Anka was. And the old man was a great deal bolder than Summerstoke. He sought Anka out, found ways to see Anka regularly. He had even installed a maid, Elsie Little, to watch over the dryad, ensure he had warm clothes and blankets for wherever the king kept him. Ensure as best she could that no one would harm the tiny child, the little dryad Anka had born the king. </p><p>Summerstoke sometimes saw the child playing quietly about the castle. He hated himself even more then, if it was possible, than on the occasions where he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Anka. </p><p>“I hope,” Taverner said now, “that you told him our victory was his doing. He should know that. I have never had to press Anka to assist us — he has volunteered each time. And he receives nothing for it.”</p><p>Summerstoke closed his eyes. </p><p>“Brave,” he barked out, when he could find his voice. “He’s so brave. John, there must be something I can do for him—“</p><p>“Steal away his poor child,” Taverner suggested. </p><p>“I’ve <i>tried</i>!” </p><p>He had. He’d tried legally and illegally, offering to buy the babe and attempting to have paid hands steal it. But neither attempt had come off successful. Where the king’s guard did not make it difficult, the devious Countess of Salford intervened. Evidently she wanted Anka’s little dryad trapped in Castle Voliere with Anka, no doubt to add to the daily indignities and pressures Anka faced. </p><p>“I’ve tried as well,” Taverner said. “It’s proving damnably difficult. And half the time I don’t know if taking Eleyi away from him wouldn’t kill him. This is the one child of all his clutches he has left, and Anka loves the boy fiercely.”</p><p>Anka always loved fiercely. Summerstoke felt his nails digging into the fine fabric of his trousers and dig them in deeper, wishing he had proper Wrollf claws with which to maul himself. Anka always, always loved fiercely. </p><p>He could have sent Anka to the country and cherished him. Like he was doing with Covey now, for the second time. But he had not done that for Anka even once. </p><p>“I—I have care of another one,” he found himself saying, voice hoarse. “Another dryad. One I used to know. He came to me last night. Broken. I’ve sent him away with Jem to heal. I don’t want anything from him, John, I swear it. But he needs to heal.”</p><p>He was surprised to find that all this was true. Covey had come back to him, and that was a miracle. But he didn’t want anything from Covey. He’d sent Covey out of the city today, sent him and Jem to the country on the railway, even though Jem hated the railway, because that would get Covey to someplace green as soon as possible. But that was all Summerstoke wanted to do with Covey. </p><p>He would probably always care for him. But Covey wasn’t the right dryad. After the king had taken Anka, Summerstoke had tried to enjoy other dryads, tried for years to drive his need for Anka from his mind. A few years after Anka had birthed the king’s clutch, Summerstoke had even tried to take pleasure with four little dryads at once — a full clutch of spry, stunning things that hailed from Irvidistan and worked in a traveling circus. But their hair was too bright and their eyes not dark enough. He could hardly stroke himself to get it up long enough to pleasure even one of them. </p><p>Hil’ki, the boldest and sweetest of the clutch, had ended up sitting and smoking with Summerstoke outside the circus tents after Summerstoke had put his prick back in his pants and paid them. </p><p>“No want D’lani?” he’d said, his gaze sharp for all his broken Monrovian. “Men always want D’lani. What wrong?”</p><p>“I had a...I knew a D’lani,” Summerstoke had confessed. “I lost him. Actually I had two and I lost them both. But after the first I could keep going. I thought I couldn’t, but it was only my pride smarting. But to lose my dryad — the second was <i>my</i> dryad — oh, I’m not explaining this right—“</p><p>“First is just sweetheart,” Hil’ki had suggested. “Second is <i>avva</i>, love. Second is <i>tuo</i>.”</p><p>Tuo. Family. The single most important bond for a dryad. Summerstoke had nodded.  </p><p>“You lose two dryad?” Hil’ki had said then. “Men lucky if lose one. You must be very lucky, stupid man, Summer.”</p><p>Taverner had essentially told Summerstoke the same thing. </p><p>“It is good that you have no wish to hurt another dryad,” the old general now said slowly. “It is an improvement. You can cling to that.”</p><p>Summerstoke finally opened his eyes again. The carriage was clattering over familiar cobbles. They were at Holshire Park, the finest district in the city, and thus would be at the townhouse in moments. </p><p>“Do you think he knows?” he asked Taverner. “That I’ve improved. That I’m not the same man.”</p><p>Taverner’s blue eyes regarded him with pity. </p><p>“Do you think he owes you that? Anka has enough problems without having to worry about your moral advancement. No, you may never know what he thinks of you now. You will have to live with the uncertainty, likely all your life, Robert.”</p><p>They were at the townhouse now. Taverner’s man was opening the carriage door. But Summerstoke couldn’t make himself move. All he could think was Anka. Anka. </p><p>He’d given Anka that name. A D’lani word. It meant ‘bird.’ He’d found and named a bird, and then locked it away for life in a miserable, humiliating cage. </p><p>“Come,” Taverner said then, touching his shoulder lightly. “As you're already preoccupied with dryads, perhaps this is the night to discuss in earnest the matter of D'laniaa.”  </p><p>And when it took Summerstoke a moment too long to move, he was kind enough not to remark on it.  </p><p>-</p><p>Anka was lashed for at least an hour, as the short autumn day gave way to night. </p><p>He disconnected on evenings like this. He became nothing more than the little bit of his cunt that was enjoying the dirty boot fuck. There, there was always a little lick of need. Humping the king like an animal got him wet. He could drive his hips into the toe of the big, well-tooled boot, much finer than anything Anka had ever owned, and let his need build. </p><p>Soon it started to feel good despite the fiery pain in his tits, the cold night air assaulting the rest of him. Anka panted softly, so as to not ruin the song of his tit and cock and cunt bells, and humped and humped. He was so raw and sensitive down there, but it felt good. </p><p>He must have come on the boot twice, which was rare for any time spent with Bardolph. Bardolph didn’t even mind. Each time he kicked Anka off and made him lick the mess up, then made him do it again so he could lash Anka as punishment. Anka’s exhausted mind was soon telling him that the smarting welts caused by the lash were a good thing, because he got them when he could come, so to get them at least meant his worthless little cunny was getting something good out of it. </p><p>This had been Summerstoke’s whole aim, according to the scattered notes appended to all his sessions in Mistress Rivenhall’s books. To take a stupid Switch, so used to abuse it would not know to fight but so young it thought it might someday have something better, and fuck the hope right out of it. Teach it to welcome abuse instead of the kindness it longed for. </p><p>When the King was done, Anka’s tits were a ruin, criss-crossed with green stripes that would likely take a week or more to heal. They were so cold and sensitive he was blinking back quiet tears when Bardolph ordered him on his back on the ground. The gravel cut into him as Bardolph settled between his legs and started to fuck Anka’s cunt. It would be just the right kind of welcoming, slick mess for the king’s large pole right now. </p><p>Anka bit back a little whine as the girth spread him. Going so stupid and blank inside meant the thickness of this cock, the cock that owned him and that he must have taken a thousand times, still surprised him a bit. </p><p>“Clench, damn you,” the king shouted in his ear. His fat hand found the pointed tip and twisted it, making more tears spring to Anka’s eyes. His huge body was now a punishing weight on Anka, and the fine medals and jeweled pins on the front of his suit were cutting into the welts on Anka’s tits, making them more painful. But at least Anka could be warm now. </p><p>“Damn! You’re milking me like the whore you are! I’ll come right in your dirty little hole, you animal! You’ll take it and like it!”</p><p>“Yes,” Anka said obediently. “Yes.”</p><p>Bardolph’s hot breath on his face. Bardolph’s hand painfully yanking his hair. Bardolph’s heavy weight on his ruined body. Gravel digging into his back and arse. And the cold, so much cold, so that he had to almost welcome that jackhammering cock inside him, for at least it was warm. </p><p>When Bardolph was done he sat back in his chair and slammed his heavy feet onto Anka’s tits and stomach. He called for another meal, to be eaten in the garden by candlelight. Anka lay in the gravel, shivering and in pain, as the king ate. </p><p>“I’m bored,” Bardolph complained. “So bored. And Allerton didn’t really notice the stables. Just talked about some damn boring bill. That boy! Loved his mother, my Judith. She had black hair — always liked black hair. I could’ve plowed her! But I wasn’t a king then, was just a prince. My damn cousin snapped her up. Well, she was my cousin too.”</p><p>Sometimes the king got like this, meandering and strange. Despite his extraordinary virility, he was not a young man, but a man with grown grandchildren. His memory would go a bit, or else he would begin to recount the women he had fucked and the rare woman he had never had a chance to. </p><p>“Bet Judith would have been as good a fuck as you are,” he mused now to Anka. “You’re not worth much, bitch, but what you do you do well. Have I fucked your arse yet t’day? Can’t remember.”</p><p>“Y-yes,” Anka dared. </p><p>Oh please, please let his arse get a rest today. In a mood like this, both carelessly forgetful and bad tempered, the king could really ruin it. </p><p>“Huh,” said the king. “Well, I’ll figure out something else to do with your holes later. Go take a damned bath. You’re filthy.”</p><p>Anka couldn’t leave the garden fast enough. His journey back to the king’s private wing was like his journey out of it — some stares, some leers, all of which he could ignore. But now he moved with a new stiffness from the lashing and the rough fuck. When he got to the dark little bathroom apportioned to him and Elly, he made the water very hot. </p><p>Washing his tits and cunt made him wince. But the heat soothed the rest of him. He reminded himself that there was a time this would have seemed like the greatest luxury. For the first fourteen or fifteen years of his life, he had never bathed at all, and when he had been washed it had been terribly cold, so cold it turned his limbs blue. </p><p>Still, he’d not been washing for ten minutes when Elsie rushed in, frantic. </p><p>Elsie was a sandy-haired, plump and pretty parlor maid. Lord Taverner had installed her in the castle to assist Anka. She had worked at Miss Rivenhall’s before it closed, and had been one of the closest things Anka had had to a friend there. She brought Anka missives from Taverner, and also helped him look after Elly. </p><p>Now she said, “It’s the little one! Anka, I’m so sorry. Mrs. Hodges said I was to iron the king’s underthings and I thought Elly was safe with the Countess. But His Highness has had a tantrum and in all that to-do Elly’s slipped off again. We can’t find him nowhere, Anka!”</p><p>Anka was out of the tub in an instant, ignoring the various pains in his body. He was barking out places to Elsie, the likeliest places for Elly to go. Elly was a wanderer. Elly liked the sunshine of the great lawn and the warmth of the pantry. He liked the trees of the Elm Drive and the Oak Drive, and the jungle humidity of the greenhouses. He liked windows — and in Castle Voliere there were a lot of windows. Once Anka had caught him standing on a fourth-floor windowsill, seriously contemplating leaping into a nearby tree. </p><p>“I can fly, Mama,” he’d told Anka seriously, as Anka had given a startled shriek and rushed to intercept him. </p><p>“No, no, Elly,” Anka had told him. Begged him, really. “You must not do that. Don’t ever think you can do that.”</p><p>In D’laniaa the dryads could walk along the tops of trees. Could fly and soar from branch to branch. And Anka had seen at least one clutch of dryads in a circus once that could do just about the same thing. Their fingernails and toes supposedly emitted a sap to help them stick when they landed. But that sap dried up in cold Monrovia, and in any case even when he’d been warm Anka had never discovered any special flying abilities. He was just a mutant, and Elly was as well. They could never fly, them two. They were grounded in Castle Voliere. </p><p>The castle cooks agreed to join the search for Elly, as did the kindest of the footmen and maids. Mr. Hollyhock said he would, as sometimes Elly snuck into the stables. The Countess had all her limited staff out looking. And his Majesty’s secretary agreed to mobilize the castle clerks, after Anka obligingly let him paw at his arse — Lord Scrimcote was too old to get it up, but remained an arse man even in his dotage. </p><p>But Anka knew they would get nowhere unless they had the guard also helping them. </p><p>“I—I can go broach it with the Captain, Anka,” Elsie said. “Or the Countess can try—“</p><p>Anka shook his head. The Captain wouldn’t listen to the Countess, and Elsie was human and blonde and just the Captain’s type, and likely to be bent over a table and assaulted for her troubles. </p><p>The Captain liked humans. He had been personally appointed to his post by Allerton. He shared most of Allerton’s views on human-inhuman relations, which was to say that there should be none, and that inhumans -- and for that matter foreign humans like Ordanians and Irvidistanis -- had no place in Monrovia. </p><p>Anka could hear him complaining as soon as he reached the bare, high marble halls that led to the castle barracks.</p><p>"I didn't sign up to make deals with no fucking Wrollves, me," he was saying. "Be like making' a bloody pact with my Demon here -- no, Demon. Down! Bloody worse, actually. Demon's smart. That Wrollf just talks like he is, talks all slick-like. The Icepick, he calls himself. I'd like to icepick him, right in his bloody furred brains. Put him down like Taverner put down all the mutts of the Norderlands."</p><p>Anka reached the barracks. He stood for a moment outside the half-open door, taking a deep breath and watching the big shadows made by the Captain as he talked animatedly to one or two guards inside. Then, because this was for Elly, he pushed the door open all the way and let himself in.</p><p>At least it was warm here. The guards had a big fire in their hearth, so that Demon, the Captain's Dobermann, could stretch out languidly. All talk stopped as soon as Anka walked in, so that all that could be heard was the sound of the dog enthusiastically licking himself. </p><p>"What do you want, Switch?" the Captain barked out.</p><p>Anka wasn't often called that these days. It was a rude word, according to the Countess. It was the nastiest, lowest way to refer to a dryad. When the Royal Exploration Company had captured the clutches of D'laniaa and brought them back to Monrovia to be sold off as pets, some of the enslaved had been on the very verge of their <i>pre-dinkala</i>. Those had started the journey as young dryads, but came off the boats more mature, more adult. The secretaries of the REC had separated these out in the public square and sold them off as discounted stock, branding their cages to designate them as D'lani that had most disobligingly, puzzlingly, gone and switched into something less valuable. </p><p>Anka had been called 'Switch' for most of his life. But he'd never realized that all 'Switch' meant was 'slave,' and an imperfect and worthless slave at that.</p><p>"Please," he said now, feeling himself very imperfect, so imperfect he'd failed his own child. "Elly's gone missing again. I should be very grateful if your men could return him to us if they see him anywhere--"</p><p>The Captain grunted.</p><p>"You ask me, Switch, things like you and that brat of yours don't belong here anyway. Switches in the bloody palace! Your kind shouldn't even be permitted indoors with the humans. And that little brat's not even old enough to take a good fucking. If your ugly little elfling falls out of a window or wanders out of the Castle grounds and freezes to death, it's no bloody loss then, is it?"</p><p>Anka kept his gaze on at the floor tiles, careful and submissive.</p><p>"Please, sir," he said. "Please."</p><p>"You say please, but you're not kneeling yet, are you, Switch?" said one of the other two soldiers, making the Captain laugh.</p><p>Anka kneeled, letting the cold tiles bite his calves, knees, and feet.</p><p>"Clothes off!" barked the Captain. "Your kind shouldn't be wearing clothes, Switch. Animals don't wear clothes."</p><p>Anka tore his smock off. </p><p>"He doesn't wear clothes, does he?" the last soldier was saying now. "Just those shifts, so the king can access his holes, like. See all his bare legs and the dirty drips from that green cunt of his." </p><p>He sniggered.</p><p>But now the Captain was circling Anka. Anka knew better than to look up at him. And he knew the Captain would be very satisfied with what he saw. Welts on Anka's breasts. The bruised imprint of Bardolph's heavy foot on his belly.</p><p>"Yeah, he beat you good today," the Captain said admiringly. "Our King Bardolph knows what you deserve, you little twat. Bet you came on it, too. Your kind aren't like the Wrollves. One thing I can say for you: Switches <i>know</i> they're just vermin. Don't you?"</p><p>Anka nodded obediently. The Captain reached out and took hold of one of the bells in his nipple, pulling it and pulling it and stretching the abused tit. Pulling it so hard the skin around the piercing strained, until Anka had tears on his face. </p><p>Every time the Captain did this, Anka always had a moment where he thought it might go too far and the Captain would just yank the piercing out. But the Captain always stopped just before that. </p><p>"Demon," the Captain always said then. The Captain said now.</p><p>The huge dog by the fire perked up. He came trotting over. When Demon was waiting by his master's feet, Anka swallowed hard again, then pushed himself forward a bit. He leaned his head forward too, getting his slim upper body under the dog.</p><p>The Captain didn't think humans should be fucking Anka, not really. The Captain liked something else from Anka, something entirely different.  </p><p>Demon wasn't so thick as the king, but he was just as long. And he smelled different, more carnal somehow. Anka lay half under the dog and put his mouth around the tip. He began to suck. </p><p>The Captain and soldiers were really guffawing now, their laughter wild. Demon shifted, whined. But his cock rutted into Anka's mouth. Anka tasted nothing but dog cock. Demon pistoned into his throat excitedly, rougher even than Bardolph. Anka whimpered around the dog's prick.</p><p>"Look!" jeered one of the soldiers. "The little bitch is getting wet."</p><p>In response to this, the Captain kicked Anka roughly in the side. Anka yelped, thrown off his rhythm, and clutched his pained ribs.</p><p>"You wanna beg for Demon's cock, bitch?" the Captain said. </p><p>Ordered, really. </p><p>Anka pushed himself back a bit, enough to fully prostrate himself before the dog.</p><p>"Please, Demon," he said, knowing the script by now. He was so far away and blank inside, hurting so much and so fearful over Elly, that he didn't even need to think of the words to say them. They came naturally. "Please fuck me, Demon. I'm a worthless Switch, lucky to get even a dog's cock. Please show this bitch my proper place, Demon."</p><p>The Captain dragged Anka by his jewel-studded collar to a place in front of the dog. Demon yipped excitedly. His huge paws scraped Anka's skin as he climbed onto the prostrate Switch, the cock poking at Anka's holes.</p><p>"Spread those ugly green flaps for 'im," the Captain ordered.</p><p>Anka reached back and got his fingers in himself, holding his own cunt open so that Demon could find purchase. The dog rutted again once, twice. Then his hard, hot prick was pushing in with no hesitation. Anka let out a guttural little sound. He was wet, so wet. Demon wasn't the first dog he'd fucked, so this clumsy animal rut wasn't new to him. And Demon -- Demon would have a <i>knot</i>.</p><p>Anka knew it was humiliating and disgusting, the way his cunt drooled and his mouth watered now. But he couldn't help himself. The Wrollf that had fucked Anka's first clutch into him had knotted him, knotted him six or seven times in one night. He'd found Anka on the streets when Anka had been about fifteen. Anka had been sick. Dazed and playing with his cunny, unable to understand the need inside him. If Anka had been a proper D'lani, and not just a Monrovian mutant, he might have understood that there was a heat coming on him. Teenaged D'lani in D'laniaa would go into heat to signal that they were finally ready to bear their first clutch. And though Anka had been very young, his body had been ready for breeding. </p><p>The Wrollf -- a handsome, platinum-blond brute with a cock so big Anka's dazed mind had half-thought it would kill him -- had picked Anka up, paid for a public pallet, torn off Anka's thin rags, and fucked him. Fucked him nonstop, his huge prick swelling up with a knot each time. Anka had been unable to do little more than see its large outline in his concave little stomach, feel the impossibly hot thing carving him open. Each time the Wrollf had knotted him, he'd lain on Anka, nearly choking the breath out of him, and pumped him with cum for twenty minutes. Hot cum, burning the way Anka needed. Over and over and over. </p><p>When Anka had stopped amusing the Wrollf, the Wrollf had left him there, twitching in the pallet. His cunt sorer than ever, his belly swelled with Wrollf-spend like a preview of what was to come. But warm. Finally warm. Anka had cried, that was how happy he'd been to be so warm. </p><p>Demon's knot wasn't so good as a Wrollf's. But it was a knot. It would swell inside him and pump him just the same. Anka was already going a little boneless at the thought. Demon fucked and fucked and fucked him, his dog-balls slapping the bells on Anka's cunt. All that could be heard now was the ringing, the wet squelching. The laughter of the soldiers. Anka could barely process their jeers now. Demon was heavy, but not so heavy as Bardolph, so none of Anka's air felt cut off or anything. He could breathe in deep and just feel the way the hot thing battered him. </p><p>Someone now called him a proper little cockslut, and he nodded. He was. He was that. </p><p>Soon Demon was whining again as the knot formed in Anka. Anka breathed out, entirely gone now. He just felt so full with heat, so hot even the pain of his tits and side and belly didn't really matter. The hard swell of the knot was firm and it hurt. But Demon was shooting spend into Anka, spend that wasn't so thick and comforting as Wrollf-spend, but that still pooled right in him, deep in his womb, and made him moan stupidly. Happily. Pleasure burst inside of him.</p><p>"Bitch," the Captain was saying. "Bitch. Little Switch Bitch."</p><p>Over and over as he rubbed himself off. The soldiers were doing the same. Their cum spurted over Anka's unseeing face and his hair. They coated him in it, getting him covered up and coughing to breathe. The Captain leaned down.</p><p>"We'll look for your little elf-brat," he grunted, as the knot kept pumping Anka full and limp. "I guess there is some use for 'im. Someday, when you've been fucked to death, your body all taxidermied like that stuffed Switch the Royal Duke's got in his office, you won't be any use to Demon. Demon will be lonely, won't he? He'll need another Switch to take his knot then."</p><p>-</p><p>It was a few hours before Elly was found, and Elly was not found so much as he simply wandered quietly back into the king's bedroom. </p><p>Anka was by then in the wardrobe, in the nest that smelled like his child and was warm. Though Elsie had left him some papers from Taverner, a great many maps and instructions and things, he did not look at those. He was too busy sobbing. Not just sobbing at the fright of Elly missing, but sobbing because by then the Captain's words had penetrated. </p><p>Anka usually let his mind go blank, when he was reminded of the King's plans to someday replace him with his own child. But sometimes it hit him. Today it hit him. Today he'd been beaten and stepped on like an animal, and then he'd proven that he was precisely that. He'd fucked a dog and enjoyed it. Enjoyed the degradation.</p><p>And someday, someone would probably make <i>Elly</i>--</p><p>He sobbed and sobbed. The wardrobe door opened a crack, and Elly climbed in. The child crawled to his mother and put his thin little arms around Anka in a hug. </p><p>"Don't cry, mama," he said. "Don't cry. Want to show you something."</p><p>-</p><p>Mylady had made Elly eat all his greens. </p><p>Elly hadn’t minded. He liked greens. These had been hot boiled spinach — “Ewww!” Edward had said; and Mylady had said, “You focus on your lessons, Edward” — but Elly liked hot, too, so that was alright. Mylady had said that he needed to eat hot food because it was so cold that afternoon and soon it would be autumn. </p><p>Mylady would soon be giving Elly blankets and clothes and shoes that were too big because they’d been Edward’s, so Elly would be alright. But Mama would not be. Mama was not allowed to wear proper clothes most of the time. Majesty liked Mama naked even when it made Mama shiver. Elly would have to stay up in the wardrobe until Mama came to bed, and hug very close to Mama to try and warm him up again. </p><p>Those were the three important people in Elly’s life, besides Edward, who would only someday be important. Mama. Mylady. Majesty. Mama was always nice, and Mylady was sometimes nice, and Majesty never was. Majesty screamed, and hit Mama. Sometimes he hit and beat Elly, if Elly was too loud and too much underfoot. He did other things, too, things Mama didn’t like Elly to look at or acknowledge. None of the things Majesty did made Mama happy. Mama just couldn’t stop him from doing those things because Mama was a dryad and belonged to him. Mama was his slave. Elly was, too, and someday he would be Edward’s. </p><p>“You are my toy,” Elly had made the big bear tell the little Wrollf. </p><p>“No. Grrr,” said the Wrollf. </p><p>Elly liked Wrollves because Wrollves could not be pushed around, except maybe by Lord Taverner. Wrollves were not like dryads. </p><p>But when he played this game on this day, Mylady said, “Eleyi! Don’t be so horrible!” </p><p>As if this was as bad as the time Edward had wrestled him to the floor and started calling him the things Majesty called Mama. Mylady had been furious then. She was almost as white now. </p><p>She took away his Wrollf again. </p><p>Mama always said Elly was never to give humans a reason to be upset with him, and Mylady was much bigger than Elly. So even if Elly bit her like he was a Wrollf it wouldn’t do anything. So Elly had to watch as she took his Wrollf to the main room next door. He slid down out of his chair and padded after her, but she’d known he would do that. The Wrollf went in the glass cabinet, which was locked by one of the big rings of keys that hung on silk ribbons by the door. </p><p>Then Mylady picked Elly up and dropped him back into the playroom. </p><p>“Go <i>play</i>, Eleyi,” she told him despairingly. “Would you like me to play with you?”</p><p>Elly shook his head. Mylady only really knew the kinds of games designed to teach him things, and he tired of that. He’d written his name on his slate many times, then Mama’s, then I AM ELLY, then I LOVE MAMA, and, really, he thought that should be enough. He wanted to go look out the big windows, but he knew Mylady wouldn’t let him. </p><p>Elly sometimes saw the great trees of the gardens through the windows, and they gave him the thought that he could fly to them if he jumped. He could soar. And in the trees he would be safe. Mama always said he had the same sorts of thoughts, but that those thoughts were not realistic. And Mylady was terrified of either of them having those thoughts, so she was always watching Elly to make sure he didn’t go near windows. </p><p>So Elly didn't dare go stand on the windowsill even though he wanted to. </p><p>“Why does he get to play while I have to do lessons?” Edward was complaining, in the meantime. “My name is much longer than his. Elly only had to learn a little bit compared to me. Elly always has to do less. I bet he couldn’t even learn my name if he had to, and you’re making me learn it and he got a new toy and I got nothing!”</p><p>“E. D. W. A. R. D. R. A. N. D. O. L. P. H. E. V. E. R. E. T. T. H. A. M. P. S. H. I. R. E.,” Elly said, very very quickly. "V." </p><p>Then he stuck his little green-tipped tongue out at Edward. </p><p>This proved to be a good idea, because of course what happened next was that Edward had a tantrum.</p><p>Edward was always having those. He was much much smaller than Majesty but could roar just as loud. But Elly was very used to roaring by now, so he only shrugged, as Mylady stamped her foot and fell to arguing and reprimanding and coaxing and cosseting, and doing all the things she swore she never did, but that people often couldn’t help but to do with Edward.</p><p>This was good. She was distracted. Even the servants were distracted, because by now Edward was throwing things at them. So Elly could slip out of the room and go to the wall by the big glass cabinet, to try and reach the keys. </p><p>They were very high up. And he was short, easily the shortest person in the castle. He cast about for something he could climb on, but most of the furniture in Castle Voliere was very old and heavy. But there — just past the door to Edward’s personal bathroom — there was the little wooden stool for Edward and Elly to get into the tub.</p><p>Elly hastened to go get it. As soon as he did, the door to Edward’s wing opened and someone walked into Edward’s main room.</p><p>Elly promptly hid himself behind the bathroom door, peering around it to see who it was. Mama always said to hide first and look later. That was good advice. Allerton had walked in. </p><p>Allerton was bad. Worse than Majesty. Mama had made that clear, and even Mylady had told Elly to always hide himself when Allerton was about. Even though Allerton was always about. He and Edward and Mylady all lived in Edward’s wing half the time. But generally Allerton was not here during the day. </p><p>Allerton took down a ring of keys. Not the ones to the glass cabinet. But then he saw the Wrollf in the glass cabinet and his pale face with the chin even pointier than Elly’s and the cold eyes almost as black as Mama’s became angry. He took a second ring, the ring with the cabinet keys, opened the cabinet, and took out Elly’s Wrollf. </p><p>Then he left. </p><p>Edward would have given up at this point. Edward was more fearful than Elly. He couldn’t even learn his own name because he was so nervous about how long it was. </p><p>But Elly had not been afraid. He was small and never noticed, and he could hide well if Allerton turned around, and he was reasonably sure he could track Allerton. Elly sometimes played that game — tracking people about the castle, like he was a big Wrollf that could not be hurt and not a little dryad that someday would hurt as bad as Mama. And he knew the castle well, from hours spent searching for tall windows with sunshine and trees and a curtain to hide behind, or warm spots in the garden where he could tear up the grass and eat it fresh, or interesting parts of the pantry that might have sweets for Edward. So Elly was certain that, wherever Allerton took his Wrollf, he could get it back again. </p><p>He slipped out of Edward’s wing after Allerton. Although he lost sight of Allerton a few times, he was a Wrollf in his mind, so he simply kept calm and crept along under the heavy furniture until he found him again. He followed Allerton quietly into rooms and out of them, crawled low after him across the castle lawn and snuck after him through a drawbridge into an older part of the castle. He flitted behind barrels to keep the men here from seeing him, and squinted at the tall, thin Duke many feet ahead, trying to make out if Allerton had his Wrollf still or if Allerton had dropped it on the way.</p><p>If he had dropped it, Elly would have to retread his steps to get it back. But that would be alright. He was enjoying the chase.</p><p>He chased and chased Allerton, always making sure to use his hiding skills. Real Wrollves would not need to hide, but then real Wrollves would not have had to be afraid of the Castle guard. Elly wished he wasn't afraid, but he was, and he was practical about that. </p><p>When Allerton or the Guard were about, the most Elly could ever do was hide and track and let his Wrollf's claws out. </p><p>He tracked Allerton down old stone steps, and into a dark sort of maze. It was cold there. Elly shivered. No, he didn't. He was a Wrollf with his claws out, and Wrollves never shivered because they were the hottest of creatures. Mama said they carried their hot around inside them to help them survive the Norderlands. Elly thought that must be lovely. He was often cold, even with the clothes Mylady gave him, so that was why he preferred to be a Wrollf.</p><p>Allerton did not lead Elly to his Wrollf. But he did lead Elly to <i>a</i> Wrollf. A funny one, once it stopped howling and howling in its grief.</p><p>"I'm keeping you alive because you can tell me about D'laniaa," Allerton said. "Perhaps if you cooperate, you will find your situation improving."</p><p>The Wrollf grunted.</p><p>"No. Not...for... you..." he forced out, around his poor broken Wrollf-tusk (Elly made a note to ask Mama to bandage it for him, once they were introduced), "Orrak...scents...D'laniaa...gone..."</p><p>"Yes," Allerton said impatiently. "Gone. My plan exactly."</p><p>"No... May...D'laniaa's...treasures...sink...before...<i>you</i>..."</p><p>Allerton was not so big a man compared to most men, and not at all big compared to the Wrollf, but he still hit the Wrollf so hard that Elly flinched. It was harder even than the hits Majesty gave Mama. But the Wrollf  was a real Wrollf, and didn't even blink.</p><p>"Do you know who you're speaking to?" Allerton demanded. </p><p>The Wrollf grinned.</p><p>"A...bastard..." he said.</p><p>Allerton had hit him and hit him then. Hit him so hard Elly had to cover up his eyes, because it upset him to see a big Wrollf hurt. Elly had been wrong about Wrollves not being pushed around. This big Wrollf was being hurt as bad as Mama. But it was strong, and like Mama it didn't make so many whimpers as Elly would. It took the hurt, like Mama always took <i>his</i> hurt.</p><p>When Allerton had gone, Elly crawled out from behind the dirty bench he'd been hiding under and approached the great big Wrollf. This was not his Wrollf but Elly did not mind that anymore. Elly petted him gently, the way he tried to pet and soothe Mama. </p><p>"What...the...?" the Wrollf began, and then started coughing.</p><p>"I'm Elly," Elly told it. "E. L. E. Y. I. Elly."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yes, I have known that that’s why they’re called switches ever since chapter one of the first story in this series, despite not knowing then that it would <i>be</i> a series. I have known many things, but for some time been unable to reveal them!! </p><p>but finally, finally I have some payoff. </p><p>Also, if you enjoy elf abuse, then I really have to plug "<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525448/chapters/59213530">Seven</a>," by unikora, one of the best gifts I've ever gotten!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Orrak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Orrak of the Snows; Anka gets some licks to his cunt and learns about D’laniaa; Lord Taverner’s meeting; the perfect fuck.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Orrak of the Snows was of the unbroken line of Lumo, born of a rare white-haired Wrollfmaiden.</p>
<p>Wrollves had women. They just did not have very many. They produced a hundred males for each female, and, being practical beings, the males therefore made it their business to seek out mates outside their native Norderlands. Wrollfsons had roved the globe in search of mates for generations, so that now for every Wrollfmaiden in the Norderlands there were a thousand in Ordania, in Irvidistan, even in cursed Monrovia. </p>
<p>This was not a bad thing, for the Wrollves. The Wrollfsons beyond the Norderlands were still of lines of Lumo, just not of the line unbroken. They had been sired not on Norderlander Wrollfmaidens but on dryads, on Peskies, on Snellings and on human women. With each siring, they changed a bit. Wrollves had once all been the same, but now there were Wrollves that could eat more than raw meat, and Wrollves that could survive even the boiling deserts of Eeyanu. There were Wrollves that could bury themselves in dirt and hibernate for nine months like an Irvidistani Omnion, and Wrollves that lacked tusks but had the strong, impossibly fast hooves of a Drukk. </p>
<p>However they changed, they were still Wrollves. Lumo had decreed that. Wrollves were not like dryads. When dryads mixed with the lines of men — or indeed with the lines of Wrollves, or anything that wasn't an elf — they invariably produced clutches of exactly two: one of whatever they mixed with, and one perfect elf. But Wrollves could produce anything. And each unique son, each Wrollfkit, was under Lumo’s ancient decree still of his clan, still Lumo’s son and a true Wrollf. </p>
<p>But only the Wrollves of the Norderlands, the Wrollfmaidens and the sons of the line unbroken, had Lumo’s Scent. </p>
<p>They could scent at a range of twenty miles. They could scent elks and bears and humans and Eelies and little softly-waving dandelions. They could scent whether their prey had eaten oats that morning, and which of the pretty women in the corner of the drinking hall had had a terrible evening the night before and was likely to be short-tempered today. They could scent which fields would give the humans good harvests twelve years from now, and which humans would be felled and fertilizing the fields in a fortnight. </p>
<p>Orrak and his brother, Yilk, had been born of a Wrollfmaiden named Ruanka, in the same cursed year the Monrovian Royal Exploration Company had begun to lay the tracks for its rail line. The line would soon stretch across the globe. Monrovia would even extend it to the Norderlands. It was a smog-belching, coal-guzzling, foul-smelling demon, and its intrusion on the Norderlands would confuse the perfect power of Lumo’s scent. The noise and pollution produced by the rail — indeed by all the chaos that men called their cities, with their putrefying cooking fires and their gas lamps and their rattling, headache-inducing pony carts — would cause even a Wrollf of the unbroken line to scent Tuesday when he ought to have scented Thursday, to scent victory when he should have scented disaster. </p>
<p>But the rail had not come to the Norderlands yet in that year. So Ruanka had scented true. </p>
<p>“Yilk, this perfect Yilk,” she scented and so said. “Will charm his enemies into friends, and make so many friends that he will always find good fortune. Yilk’s children will be luckier than the children born of kings. Yilk will reach into muck and mire and will always scent in the shitpile the finest, ripest jewels. Only a Wrollf can fell Yilk, but no son of Lumo — and all our Wrollfsons are sons of Lumo — ever <i>shall</i> fell this perfect Yilk.”</p>
<p>But of Orrak she said, “Orrak will be surrounded by jewels and will still lie in his own filth and his misery and his blood. He will scent no truths but painful truths, and half the time even those will give way to the scent of lies. When Orrak could scent lovely things, Orrak will instead scent only what brings him pain. Though there are no false Wrollves under Lumo’s decree, only a false Wrollf would help Orrak in his time of need. </p>
<p>“To be honest, we should probably just expel Orrak right now.”</p>
<p>And so it was. Yilk grew handsome and brutally lusty, so that they called him Yilk the Icepick. He grew to scent delicious bears and foolhardy men he could trick into trading him their wives. Orrak grew ungainly even for a Wrollf, and scented nothing but the emptiest of forest clearings, the most uninterested of wives. When he reached adulthood he was expelled, mostly because he kept scenting losses to the great Monrovian Lord Taverner, and those losses kept coming true. </p>
<p>Orrak would say embarrassing things like, “No, see, I know we don’t like the rail, but that’s how the humans get their supplies, so I think if we just got hold of a few clothespins for our noses and went and pulled up those smelly tracks, maybe we wouldn’t lose this one. Otherwise we’re gonna lose this one.”</p>
<p>Wrollves embraced all sons of Lumo. But sometimes they wished Orrak had been born an Omnion or something instead. </p>
<p>"Go find yourself a mate, Orrak," the Wrollves of the Norderlands advised. "And, uh, no need to come back now."</p>
<p>Yilk left the Norderlands at the same time Orrak did, to seek his own mate and fortune. </p>
<p>“If we seek it together, mother,” he said. “Then my good luck will cancel out Orrak’s bad luck. I scent that you wish me to protect and help him, and so I tell you now, because I want to bring you joy, that I freely leave with him knowing I have your blessing.”</p>
<p>But Yilk only promised to leave with his brother. Not to stay with him. </p>
<p>When they reached Ordania, he said, “Orrak, I can scent the human cities are bringing you pain, brother. Their bustle, noise, and smell overwhelm you. But I just picked up three tankards of beer on the house for me, six different meat skewers I can lift from a cart, and twelve lovely cunts that could be mine for the taking. So, to be honest, you’re sort of bringing me down. Fuck off.”</p>
<p>Orrak wrote him letters sometimes. Yilk only rarely wrote back. The two brothers went their separate ways and from then on Orrak was alone.</p>
<p>Until he met Kouvi and Kouvi gave him a purpose. And now Kouvi was dead. </p>
<p>He knew it because he could scent up to twenty miles away. Kouvi’s scent had been out there, faintly, for most of the day. But when Allerton came and explained about the suicide, Orrak scented and discovered that Kouvi was gone. Kouvi had been in the Capitol, and now he was gone. So Orrak — Orrak howled and howled. </p>
<p>He could scent at least one other dryad near, very like Kouvi. A dryad in pain, of course, because Orrak could always scent pain. But the dryad was not Kouvi, and that was even more painful. </p>
<p>So he had simply lain there, deep in the darkest part of the jewel-studded marble and stone masterpiece that was Castle Voliere, in misery and his own filth, with blood and dirt crusted into his braids and beard. Just as Ruanka had said. And he had known that no Wrollf would help him, no true Wrollf, for of course there were no false Wrollves. </p>
<p>That was when a very small D'lani petted one of his dirty braids, introduced itself, and erroneously declared itself a Wrollf. </p>
<p>A few days later, in the still of the night when the soldier guarding Orrak was fast asleep, Elly brought Orrak the castle's dryad. Anka was green at the tips, so he had to be a dryad. But at first Orrak thought he was of Nara, he was so beautiful. </p>
<p>Orrak took a deep scent of Anka as Anka bound his tusk for him.</p>
<p>Orrak scented nothing but the things that brought him pain. Kouvi. Yilk. Orrak grunted. He liked to pretend that it was the chaos of human smells that threw his scent off, as if he were pristine as a Wrollfmaiden, but the truth was that his scent was off because he was Orrak. He could never scent anything except what he didn't want to.</p>
<p>Now he scented the slim dryad's hurt, such an awful fog of it that Orrak knew this boy had suffered as much as he, and that Anka's healing bruises were only the latest evidence of years and years of deeper abuse. Orrak could scent that, and mourned at it. And he could scent fertility, and -- deeper down -- the experience of carrying and whelping two clutches, one of them a Wrollf's clutch. Orrak reached out a claw and brushed Anka's hair back.</p>
<p>"I am Orrak of the Snows," he managed, for in the past few days he had been tortured less and his voice was returning to him. "I scent that you love someone you wish you did not. I scent that you are loved by one who can never reveal they love you. I scent that you were born of a love which poisoned all it touched, and that out there the one who has poisoned your life cruelly convinces himself that he can never again love you. I scent around you the scent of almost nothing but pain."</p>
<p>Then he'd had to stop and cough a bit. But when he recovered, he said:</p>
<p>"I can never love you. I will never love again, because all I love is dead. But as I'm miserable and you're miserable, in all honesty, I think we'd make a good match. Rescue me, little elf, and I will try to rescue you. If we fail, we fail together. Which would be nice because usually I fail on my own."</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>For three weeks, Anka tended Orrak for Elly. </p>
<p>Orrak was an odd, enormous brute, much larger and yet much gentler than any Wrollf Anka had ever before encountered. He was not handsome. He had a face that was too mournful. But he was kind. Anka often shivered in the cold of the keep, and the Wrollf always noticed and tried to warm him with his breath. Indeed, on the day Anka figured out how to help Orrak to the bench and loosen Orrak’s chains, the large Wrollf bent down and even licked Anka with his hot, enormous tongue. </p>
<p>Licked Anka's neck. Anka’s collarbones, peeking out from his smock. Then the big Wrollf hands lifted up the flimsy velvet garment and licked again, licked instinctively. Anka stood between Orrak’s massive thighs, too surprised to move back. By now his welts had healed and so the tongue wasn’t painful, just hot. So hot. As Orrak’s whiskery head brushed his bare skin, Orrak carefully turned him, moved him about like a little doll. And licked. Licked to warm Anka up. </p>
<p>It was so nice on his sore nipples especially. Anka thought Orrak might try to steal away some of his milk — everyone did — but Orrak really was just trying to warm him and let that alone. </p>
<p>He only said, with his rough Norderlander accent, “There are little holes here.”</p>
<p>Anka flushed. </p>
<p>“They’ve pierced me, sir. But I’ve taken out the ones I usually wear. They make too much noise.”</p>
<p>Visiting Orrak was a careful affair, which had initially involved sneaking out the key ring Elly pointed out and getting it to Elsie so Elsie could make a copy of the key to the castle keep. Elsie had also gotten word to Taverner about Orrak. Anka had been initially hopeful that Taverner could find a way to spring the Wrollf out, but so far all Taverner had done was send his own connections — proper soldiers, not castle soldiers — to run drills with the castle guard and so create windows of time where Orrak was not so carefully guarded. </p>
<p>Now Orrak kept licking. He licked Anka’s slender arms and the dip of his back. Licked his rounded arse and the tops of his thighs. Anka felt himself going wet at it, at being so persistently warmed up by that tongue. </p>
<p>“Hm,” Orrak said. “Do you want my tongue there as well, little dryad?”</p>
<p>Anka flushed. He did want that, very badly. For all the fucking he’d done, all the cocks he’d taken, he had only ever rarely had his cunny licked. That was a treat Summerstoke had reserved only for when he felt like being really kind, a treat other men never bothered with at all. So, really, just the mention of it made Anka even wetter. </p>
<p>“Hm,” Orrak said again, but didn’t move. </p>
<p>Oh, Anka wanted him to move. </p>
<p>“Please,” he said. “I’ll come quick, I promise. It will be hardly any work. Sir.”</p>
<p>“You do not have to call me sir,” Orrak said. “I am only Orrak.”</p>
<p>He let Anka’s smock drop back down, shifting back and over a bit. Then he lifted Anka up easily and put him on the bench, laid him out so his legs dangled in either side and his cunt was free to the air. Orrak put his great tangled head down, but angled it, so his tusk didn’t stab into Anka. His big tongue tasted down the middle of the slit, tasted and tasted and tasted. It was so wet Anka was panting. He loved the nice rough licks. He wished Orrak could go deeper, could force his tongue into him the way Summerstoke had used to, but the tusk prevented it. Orrak just licked. Licked until Anka was shaking on his tongue. </p>
<p>When Anka came, it was a hot, clear pleasure tinged by hardly any pain at all. Anka blinked dazedly up at the gloom of the keep, breathing out deep. His cunt seemed to be tingling, all of him was tingling, at how little abuse had been necessary to bring him to orgasm. </p>
<p>He just felt — nice. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said quietly, when he found his voice. His face was wet. He scrubbed it away. </p>
<p>Orrak sighed, and palmed his mound with a hot, big hand, making sure his claws didn’t hurt Anka. </p>
<p>“You are very flushed, little dryad. Aching and very used. I scent many, many fucks to this poor cunt.”</p>
<p>Anka nodded into the dark. </p>
<p>“You scent right,” he said simply. </p>
<p>“One knot,” Orrak said. “Only one knot, and that was very long ago. So you do not smell like someone else has marked you to be mated.”</p>
<p>“Orrak, sir,” Anka said, “I appreciate your attentions. But no one in their right mind would ever want to mate me. I’m a whore — I always have been.”</p>
<p>It had been three weeks and still the big Wrollf persisted, offering Anka a proper Wrollf mating each time Anka came to tend his wounds. Anka found it a bit flattering, in a silly way that made something very young in him squirm. He had at first thought the Wrollf was delusional with pain, but now he was beginning to realize that Orrak was just an odd sort. </p>
<p>No one would ever actually want to shack up with Anka, marry him, mate him. The Wrollf that had knotted Anka through his heat had seen that. Summerstoke had too — he’d never knotted Anka at all. Anka had been used so often, by so many pricks, that he was a whorish green in places he shouldn’t be. Anka had holes for bells and weights and cold metal rings in him. Anka could hardly talk some days for the rough royal cock he’d had to suck for breakfast. </p>
<p>No, Anka was a thing to fuck. That was all. And this poor Wrollf wasn’t in any condition to rescue him. Even now Anka could see that Wrollf had one of his big arms bleeding, like they had lashed him there again. Anka felt a stab of guilt for how he had let himself be distracted and now struggled up, reaching for the bag of medical supplies Taverner had given him through Elsie. </p>
<p>Anka knew how to tend wounds by now, from tending his own. He turned to Orrak’s arm and began to clean it. Orrak did not so much as hiss as he did so, plainly as strong as he was big. </p>
<p>“You don’t want it because you are in love,” Orrak said glumly. “That always happens to me. But I scent that the one you love has only ever hurt you. I would not hurt you.”</p>
<p>“Just so,” Anka said, still concentrating on Orrak’s arm. “But I love him anyway, Orrak.”</p>
<p>He did. His love for Summerstoke was just a painful fact now, like the fact of his ever-too-heavy tits. Orrak, like he could somehow scent the thought, now brought his free hand under Anka’s smock again. He brushed an achy, pebbled nipple. </p>
<p>“You should give this to the elf baby.”</p>
<p>“Elly’s too old,” Anka said. “And I have to reserve my milk for the king, anyway.” </p>
<p>“I hate your Monrovian king,” Orrak said. “You should too, for what Monrovia did to your homeland, little dryad.”</p>
<p>His thick fingers tugged just right, making a bead of milk swell up and Anka give a little hiss. </p>
<p>“Stop that!” Anka said, despite liking it. “You can have a drink of it once I’ve tended you if you like, but right now all you’re doing is making me wet again.”</p>
<p>“You get wet very easily,” Orrak observed. “It is part of what would make you such a good mate. Even my big Wrollf’s cock could slide into you so nicely. But you do not want to be my mate, even though I would try with all my power to get you and the elf to D’laniaa.”</p>
<p>Now Anka had to shift, trying to calm himself. Thinking of Wrollf cock always made him needy. And Orrak’s bulge in his tattered trousers was so big, almost frightening in its heft. Anka didn’t even think the Wrollf was hard yet, but the dirty, blood-encrusted fabric was still straining to contain his pole. If Anka tried to fuck that, it would either kill him or make him mindless. Rob him of any thought but that cock. It would be hot and huge and a thing of decided pain, and Anka was precisely the whore he’d told Orrak he was, so naturally just looking at it made him want it in every hole. </p>
<p>But he wasn’t here for that. He was tending Elly’s Wrollf. He was maybe getting a few kind licks on his cunt, licks he wouldn’t get anywhere else. </p>
<p>And he was hearing about D’laniaa. </p>
<p>Taverner had sent him maps of D’laniaa, or the Delany Archipelago, as the Monrovians called it. A series of jungle islands that, thirty or so years ago, had been most thoroughly despoiled by the Royal Exploration Company. The REC had been searching for the lost treasures of Atlantis. But they had found D’laniaa instead. The islands — full of rare fruits, arable land, and pretty little dryads —proved far better than myth. So the REC had claimed all the islands for Monrovia. The D'lani had been mostly killed or enslaved or forced to flee to other places, and the few that remained had retreated into the darkest parts of the jungles. </p>
<p>There were estimated to be only three or four hundred D’lani left in the world, and a mere fraction of that in D’laniaa. </p>
<p>Until a giant wave washed over the islands a few years ago. In its wake came this creature even Taverner was leery of. Orrak of the Snows had appeared with what the REC had estimated were at least another four hundred D’lani. </p>
<p>Taverner was unconvinced that anyone should now rescue Orrak. According to Taverner, Orrak’s D’lani-manned ships had attacked ports and emptied out farms, burned outposts and sunken REC ships. Thanks to this strange, mournful creature, a creature that appeared to have trained the famously land-bound D’lani to survive on <i>water</i> — sixty corps of the REC had already been forced out of the archipelago. Orrak’s crews were fierce, and said to be especially savage in a way D’lani were not meant to be. Taverner’s informants claimed that they had soulless eyes and that the telltale colors of their fingertips could not be seen for the blood on their hands. Even the REC ship that had taken the Wrollf had been unable to capture most of the dryads onboard. </p>
<p>Just Orrak and one single dryad. His mate. Sometimes when Anka came to a Orrak, he found the great beast lying on the floor, howling out his pain. </p>
<p>Anka found it hard to reconcile that with the picture of Orrak as a pirate, the picture that Taverner told him was most assuredly true. </p>
<p>“D’laniaa is so green the scent is never confused, and the its sea so deep and dark at night that my weak Wrollf-sight is soothed,” Orrak said now, sighing. “And the salt air clears me of the confusions of the world of men. For me, that’s about all I need in a place. I don’t ask for much. </p>
<p>"But for the D’lani it is even better. It is a home that is ever-hot. There the trunks of the trees are so vast that D’lani can carve themselves stairs and ladders and palace rooms inside, and still the trees grow and live and shelter them. At the very top of the trees are their terraces, where they put the nests for their clutches. Those terraces are too bright for me, but you would like them.”</p>
<p>Anka thought he would. He really thought he would. And when Orrak spoke like that, he regretted that the Wrollf had been captured at all. That he had not been permitted to free D’laniaa. </p>
<p>But his ravaging of the archipelago had attracted Allerton’s enmity. And already Allerton was using it, turning key members of the council against the dryads, trying to push for a war that would clear the islands of its native inhabitants for good. </p>
<p>Clear the world of them. </p>
<p>Anka wanted his fellow dryads to be free. But, more than that, he wanted them to <i>live</i>. Though he supposed it made him miserable, though he supposed it was just the trapped thinking of a worthless mutant that had never seen his ancestral homeland, he felt himself to be Monrovian enough that he did not need another homeland. But he did need to know that, somewhere out there, there were people like him. </p>
<p>So he tended Orrak, rather than helping the gentle Wrollf escape. Sometimes he did entertain the fantasy, a fantasy in which Orrak always managed to not just escape to D’laniaa but also capture Elly and deliver him to a kind, loving, golden-haired clutch. A clutch of brothers like the golden brother Anka sometimes dreamed about. A true clutch of the trees, that could care for Elly better than a Monrovian mutant could. </p>
<p>But he knew better than to trust in wild thinking like that. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>For all that Anka communicated with Taverner through Elsie, he did not actually see the man for another week. </p>
<p>Taverner was the commander of Monrovia’s land armies, and, next to Bardolph and perhaps Allerton, the single most powerful man in the land. Taverner maintained Monrovia’s careful treaties with Ordania and Irvidistan and the Norderlands, and kept a monthly appointment with the king at which he proposed the occasional adjustment. Lowering taxes on imports, and replacing Monrovian-born regents with local ones. Regulating how much the REC could mine or farm, so as to not strip the lands they had taken. Taverner was not precisely merciful — no Monrovian was. But he was careful and fair and Anka trusted him. And he was always sneaking toys to Elly. </p>
<p>Bardolph generally awaited the general in the war room, a great hall that had the map of the Monrovian empire painted on the ceiling. Like all of Castle Voliere’s halls, the war room one was very drafty. Portraits of royal cousins who had conquered this or that lined the walls — which meant a great many faces that looked like the Bardolph, Edward, and the Countess. By the door hung two exceptions to the conquerors: a dark-haired female cousin Bardolph had always liked, and Taverner, who was not related to the royal line at all but had most assuredly earned his place in the hall. </p>
<p>He was a handsome old silver-haired gentleman, not tall but very muscular, with a silver mustache and piercing blue eyes. When he entered the hall he always, always saluted to the king and then offered a kind pat to Anka. Even the king didn’t dare correct him on the latter count. </p>
<p>Taverner patted the kneeling dryad now. Then he took off his military jacket, as if it were perfectly normal for a gentleman to disrobe in front of Bardolph, unbuttoned a second, warmer flannel he had on over his dress whites, and draped that over Anka. He then buttoned up his uniform again. </p>
<p>He sat in his chair.</p>
<p>“You sure you don’t want to use him, Taverner?” the king grunted. </p>
<p>He never offered Anka out but to Taverner. Always made Anka kneel respectfully by the great general’s chair. And yet Taverner never used Anka. Anka was both grateful and wistful over this. Taverner had had Anka once, only once, at Miss Rivenhall’s school. Anka still remembered it as one of the nicest fucks of his life. It was the only fuck Anka had ever had that could remotely be called sweet. Taverner hadn’t hit or kicked or barked out orders, just rocked into Anka, not too fast and not so hard, rocked and rocked waves of pleasure into him. </p>
<p>Anka was a true Monrovian in some ways, and thus knew it would have been his honor to take Taverner’s cock even if it had been brutal. But it hadn’t been brutal. Taverner had enjoyed nothing so much as making Anka like it, like Orrak had with his tongue. </p>
<p>Now he said, “I’d like to give Anka a little rest, my liege,” and patted Anka’s head again. Just two soft, gentle taps. He began to talk of Ordania — he never spoke of D’laniaa to the king because those were islands and therefore per Bardolph's decree in the purview of Allerton and the REC. But Anka listened nevertheless, interested in the interplay of all those princes and laws, the impacts of this harvest and that volcano eruption. </p>
<p>Bardolph began to look bored in seconds, blowing out a great breath and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. </p>
<p>Anka dared to rest his head on Taverner’s thigh, wanting the comfort. The general did not react other than to pass his hand softly through Anka’s hair. </p>
<p>“Prince Ladolat’s request for soldiers to quell these so-called desert uprisings therefore rings false, my liege, and is likely just a means of massacring more defenseless Ariellads—“</p>
<p>“You sure you don’t want to fuck him?” King Bardolph asked the ceiling. “He’s a damn good fuck. Stumps me every time that you don’t want to fuck him.”</p>
<p>“And yet I don’t, my liege,” Taverner said smoothly. “The Ariellads despite their size are very gentle, living creations of the Yaellads—“</p>
<p>“I’d be bored stupid if I didn’t at least have him to fuck. Half the time I’m bored stupid anyway. Used to be I could fuck for nine hours straight and never get bored. How do you not get bored, Taverner?”</p>
<p>“My liege, you keep me so very busy. By your own grace, my life is never cursed with boredom. But back to the Yaellads. Unlike the Ariellads, they are both human and a minority in the province of Lados, a minority which—“</p>
<p>“I’ll get his tits around my cock later, that’ll be fun,” the king mused. “But then what? To tell you the truth, I like looking at him when I fuck him. I’ve always liked dark hair. But I don’t much have the ingenuity I used to. I’d like to get another dryad, maybe, and have them fuck each other. But the damned thing would be blond and I can’t abide blondes, never have—“</p>
<p>“You do not need another dryad,” Taverner said sharply, breaking off from his explanation to quell that awful idea. “Anka is more than enou—“</p>
<p>“You’re damn right,” the king said, slouching up. “You’re damn right. I’ve got one. Train up the little one, that’s what I’ll do—“</p>
<p>Anka’s heart shuddered. He found himself digging his nails into Taverner’s trouser leg, whimpering. </p>
<p>“<i>No</i>,” Taverner said. </p>
<p>There was a moment’s silence. Bardolph blinked, as if unable to believe someone had said no to him. </p>
<p>Taverner did not react as if he had done anything unusual, however. </p>
<p>He simply said, “There are plenty of non-blondes for Anka that would not be four years old and his own child, my liege. It is not seemly. Now. If you would look here to this diagram of Lados—“</p>
<p>“You say that, but you’ve never even fucked him, so what do you know?” the king grunted, as Anka’s heart continued to race and the dryad found himself still unable to think for fear. “Damned eunuch—“</p>
<p>The little door at the far end of the hall, the one that led to the warren of council rooms, clicked open. A tall, familiar form stumbled in with none of its usual prowling grace. </p>
<p>“Summerstoke!” Bardolph roared. “Thank the damned saints! Finally, a man who knows what fun is. Here, I’ll show you, Taverner — Summerstoke, <i>you</i> bloody fuck him!"</p>
<p>A pause, as the Earl of Summerstoke wore the look of a man who'd just had a pail of cold water unceremoniously dumped on his head.</p>
<p>Bardolph added, "And make it good. I'm bored.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Generally, Summerstoke never interrupted Taverner’s audiences with the king. He had his own audiences with the king, to discuss Monrovia itself. The land empire was Taverner’s business and the empire of the seas Allerton’s. Summerstoke, meanwhile, handled things like the upkeep of local roads and the establishment of food banks for their homegrown poor. That was precisely why he’d worked so hard on his poverty relief bill. </p>
<p>But he had desperately, desperately needed to speak to his mentor. </p>
<p>It had been a month since he had sent Covey to the country. Jem had cursed him loudly for it, for Jem hated taking the rail line anywhere, but Summerstoke had not cared. He'd ordered Covey drugged and sent away to heal, and his orders were always to be followed to the hilt. </p>
<p>And thus for four weeks, though he could have no peace of mind regarding Anka, he had at least had peace of mind regarding Covey. Geraldine had even written to say Covey was settling in well, that the children were behaving themselves around him, and that Summerstoke's cousin Euphemia found in him a friend. That Covey remembered all his favorite boltholes on the Summerstoke grounds, and that he had passed a tremendously good time one day striding through the yellow gorse fields with their dear friend, Euphemia's husband, Freddie Audley.</p>
<p>Jem had of course rebelled over the rail line and very disobligingly stayed out there for three weeks more than he was supposed to. But Jem was Summerstoke's brother and therefore a very disobliging valet, and tended to exile himself to the country whenever the mood suited him, whenever he wanted to sketch gorse fields or drink in rustic taverns or whatever it was Jem did. So Summerstoke had not been too worried about that.</p>
<p>He was perfectly right not to worry. That morning, when he awoke, <i>Jem</i> wasn't straddling him and holding a razor to his throat.</p>
<p>"Good morning, Robbie," Covey said, very seriously.</p>
<p>"Er," said Summerstoke.</p>
<p>The humiliating thing was, it was the <i>man</i> in him that wanted to tackle Covey and give him a good wallop for so much as daring to threaten an Earl. The damned <i>Wrollf</i> in him was curling up in a ball and whimpering over the fact that this dryad, the dryad Summerstoke had treated well, had not reduced to degradation and slavery --</p>
<p>Even this dryad had good reason to want Summerstoke dead.</p>
<p>Summerstoke was half man, half-Wrollf, and he was beginning to understand that while the man in him could be dominating and deranged, the Wrollf was, embarrassingly, little more than a puppy.</p>
<p>"I told you I had business in the Capitol, Robbie," Covey said. "You should have known I would be back."</p>
<p>"Yes," Summerstoke said. "Quite right. Perhaps you can remove the razor -- that's my razor, by the way; you're a dryad and don't need a razor; please put it back on the washstand -- and we can talk about that business."</p>
<p>"My business is none of your business!" Covey snapped.</p>
<p>"When you first arrived, you seemed to want my help with it," Summerstoke reminded him. Summerstoke's Wrollf reminded him. Summerstoke's man was getting seriously annoyed.</p>
<p>"I do not need your help to rescue Orrak of the Snows!" Covey snarled. "Orrak may be sorry, and he may be sad. But he is forty times the Wrollf you are!" </p>
<p>Summerstoke had blinked. Orrak of the Snows. <i>Orrak of the Snows</i>.</p>
<p>Summerstoke had charge of Monrovia and Taverner of the land empire. But they still kept abreast of goings-on in the various island outposts of the Royal Exploration Company. Someday, it would be Summerstoke's very great pleasure to wrest control of the REC from Allerton, after all. And not a month ago, on the day he had last seen Anka and sent Covey away, Taverner had wanted to discuss the REC. Discuss their capture of the mysterious Orrak of the Snows.</p>
<p>Taverner had wanted Summerstoke's father, Urk, who was himself the son of a full-blooded Wrollf of the Norderlands, to see what he could dig up about Orrak. Orrak had apparently appeared on the crest of a wave seven years ago, with several crews of unhinged, angry dryads, and begun to drive the REC out of D'laniaa. This was not normal behavior for a Wrollf. Orrak had been captured about a month ago, supposedly captured with a single dryad, one that had committed suicide by diving into the waters of the Capitol bay--</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p>Oh. A great many things suddenly became eerily clear to Summerstoke. Some of which he would have to pass on to Taverner.</p>
<p>"I'm going to rescue Orrak, but before I do I'm going to kill you," Covey was now saying, deadly serious. "You disgusting, flea-riddled rapist, you dog's piss-stain--</p>
<p>Summerstoke had let the man in him win out. Though he hadn't wanted to hurt Covey, he'd brought up a fast fist and punched him in the jaw, never mind the damn razor. While Covey was yelling, he'd tackled him and yelled to Jem to bring the chloroform again.</p>
<p>Then he'd hastily come to Castle Voliere to look for Taverner. Who was in a meeting with the king, and Anka.</p>
<p>Anka was never at Summerstoke's audiences with the king. After Summerstoke had traded Anka to the king -- a most unwitting and unwilling trading -- he had tried to get Anka back. He had begged and flattered and done everything he could think of to have Bardolph return Anka. So Bardolph knew of Summerstoke's attachment, and perhaps that was why he restricted the Earl's time with the royal pet.</p>
<p>Perhaps not.</p>
<p>"Come on! I'm letting you have his cunt!" Bardolph roared now, smacking his fist on the table and making a great many plates and a great many maps jump. "Or arse! Always wondered if you were more of an arse or a cunt man, Summerstoke!"</p>
<p>He was an Anka man. He had dreamed for five years of Anka, of not just the cunt and arse but the point of Anka's ears, the inquisitive tilt to his dark eyebrows. The hollows in his collarbones and the way one corner of his mouth tilted up when Anka felt happy and praised. He had dreamed of having Anka in better ways, much kinder ways than he had ever actually used Anka.</p>
<p>He had never, ever wanted to have Anka like this.</p>
<p>Taverner was now giving an imperceptible shake of his head.</p>
<p>But Anka -- Anka was struggling up. Summerstoke blinked at this. Anka was normally exceedingly graceful, and seemed to be more so every time Summerstoke saw him. But the dryad was not graceful now. He seemed to stumble to Summerstoke, and something in his eyes was terrible and frightened.</p>
<p>"Anka," Summerstoke said, growling out his name despite himself. It was all he could do not to hold his arms open for the dryad.</p>
<p>Anka fell to his knees before him. Quite literally fell, as though something in him had been cut.</p>
<p>"That's it, bitch!" roared Bardolph. "Summerstoke -- he's all yours!"</p>
<p>Summerstoke shook his head. No. No, he did not want Anka like this.</p>
<p>But Anka just looked up at him. Fisted his hands in the front of Summerstoke's trousers. </p>
<p><i>Kiss me</i>, he mouthed.</p>
<p>Summerstoke bent down to kiss him. It was not the kiss he wanted to give Anka -- for god's sake, Bardolph was already tugging out his own ugly prick -- but it was a chance to kiss Anka. To kiss him after Anka had requested it. Summerstoke kissed his lips and felt Anka's thin hands in his hair, guiding him. Summerstoke, guided, kissed his jaw and kissed down his throat.</p>
<p>"He's bored," Anka whispered, right in Summerstoke's ear, hiccuping a bit as though he were holding back tears. "He's been bored and distracted and careless for weeks. And he -- I'm not amusing him anymore. He said today he might start training Elly. If I don't keep amusing him. So--so please. Please do what he says. I want to keep him amused."</p>
<p>Elly -- Anka's little child. The tiny, bobbing dark head Summerstoke sometimes caught hiding behind statues or tucked into very long window drapes. The child never so much as acknowledged Summerstoke, often very involved in his own play. But Summerstoke could never help but to notice him, for the small, elfin creature was so like Anka. </p>
<p>No. Not quite like Anka. Anka as Summerstoke had once known him had had an innocence and a curiosity that Summerstoke had helped to obliterate. Elly had the same wide expressions and strange little dryad humming songs, but somehow <i>more</i>. For all the perversions of Bardolph's court, Elly had not had a childhood of starvation, poverty, and near-constant rape. </p>
<p>Until now, evidently. The Wrollf in Summerstoke, far from being a puppy, now lashed out and howled, its rage absolute. Summerstoke the man only nodded into Anka's neck. </p>
<p>Then he fisted a hand in Anka's hair.</p>
<p>He pulled the dryad up by it, so he could kiss him with more force. Summerstoke knew how to put on a show -- he and Freddie Audley had at times gone discreetly whoring together at school, and upstaging one another with the various Wrollves and Peskies and Eelies they fucked had been something of a game then. Freddie had tended towards being more submissive than Summerstoke. Summerstoke's fancies had never run that way. He ran towards domination.</p>
<p>And Anka had always opened up so beautifully to that. The boy's mouth was giving and hot and sweet, his little breaths and moans all a perfect encouragement. Though Summerstoke knew desperation animated him, not desire, Anka now gave no sign of that. He guided Summerstoke's hands to the hem of his smock and invited Summerstoke to strip him. </p>
<p>Naked, he was superb. He had always been superb, even when he'd been a bony, bruised thing Summerstoke had picked up off the streets. Summerstoke took a moment to pass his hands over all the corners he'd so missed: the slender neck, the collarbones. The full, lovely breasts. Anka had rings in his nipples today, and gently tugging one produced a whine of the sort Summerstoke had feverish dreams about.</p>
<p>Then lower. Anka's little cocklet was trim and perfect. Tugging it only twice made Anka jerk. It was hard with that, only that. Anka had seemed surprised to feel this cocklet's pleasure when Summerstoke had first found him. It had been one of Summerstoke's select projects to rewire the boy, make him long to come from the small, underused appendage. Summerstoke now fingered the silver cockring Anka wore and frowned -- if only he could let Anka free and give the dryad a chance to spurt. Anka was breathing heavily now, as if he really wanted it. Summerstoke would give it to him and make it good for him, if he could.</p>
<p>But again those green-tipped hands were on his hand. Anka guided him lower, to the wet green cunt Summerstoke remembered so well. With two fingers Summerstoke rubbed into the slit, gathering up enough slick to turn Anka and start working the rim of his arse. That was green as well, a green pucker that by now had known enough use to give under his hands. He spent some moments playing between the holes, getting them both slippery. Anka spread his outer cunny lips to let their audience see Summerstoke's hand working him, rubbing him. The dryad threw back his head and bit back such lovely noises. His hips rocked into the Earl's hands, wanton and willing. </p>
<p>Bardolph -- Summerstoke did not want to look at Bardolph -- was eagerly stroking himself, pleased enough. Taverner was -- not. But Summerstoke actually couldn't look at Taverner. Taverner would know that this, this unmanly immediate acquiescence to using Anka --</p>
<p>This was not Summerstoke at his best. It was not who Summerstoke wanted to be.</p>
<p>He was still rock hard. So hard it was nearly painful, though he'd done no more than fondle the dryad a bit. He grabbed the perfect globes of Anka's arse now, kneading them and counting down, trying to clear his head for a few moments. Then he kissed the dryad's neck from behind.</p>
<p>The better to whisper in one pointed ear, "Back or front?"</p>
<p>He would give Anka that choice, at least.</p>
<p>Though he thought Anka would pick his cunt -- at least from his cunt the dryad could come -- Anka breathed out quite the opposite.</p>
<p>"My rear," he managed, between pants. His cunt was drooling so much that Summerstoke could run a finger along his inner thighs and come away wet. Summerstoke used that to slick his arse up a bit again. He knew he was not a small man, and that if Anka was not prepared, even his pliable little rim would be stretched to burning. </p>
<p>When he felt he had worked it enough, and it could take four long fingers without give, he pushed Anka to the table in the center of the hall. Anka fell forwards, onto a great many maps of the empire, his bare arse in the air. Summerstoke was freely leaking precum by now, and had to take a moment to free his own cock. </p>
<p>The picture even Anka's rear presented was divine: round globes, long white legs, and in the center that little green pucker that Summerstoke knew from experience would clench perfectly around his cock. </p>
<p>But he did not want to take Anka from behind. Though it might make a pretty picture for the king for him plow Anka like that, to take Anka like a whore from the rear, Summerstoke didn't want that. He wanted to see Anka, gauge Anka's pleasure. He wanted to take Anka like a lover, though they were not and had never been that.</p>
<p>He helped the dryad climb onto the table fully. Anka got on his arms and legs, so that between his limbs Summerstoke could see a trail of slick still clinging prettily to his cunt. Summerstoke gathered it up and rubbed his arsehole again, working two fingers in again. Anka fucked into it, with enough experience to know that even this extra preparation would be to his benefit.</p>
<p>Then Summerstoke guided him, turning him over. He spread Anka out on the maps of the empire, so that the boy's legs were splayed and his flushed green privates available. Summerstoke lined himself up. He watched Anka's face as he pushed in.</p>
<p>Even with the preparation, it was a tight fit. Summerstoke was not a small man in any regard, least of all his cock, which was large no matter what form he chose to take -- man or Wrollf. Anka's passage gave some resistance, hot and taut. Summerstoke groaned to feel it, so perfect around his cock. </p>
<p>Anka's eyelashes fluttered. The dryad was still breathing out heavily, but he seemed well-able to withstand the intrusion. When Summerstoke ran another finger down his empty slit, he was still wet. Anka licked his lips. The sight of the lovely green tongue made Summerstoke unable to withstand holding out any more. He began to thrust.</p>
<p>He did not, as he once might have, fuck in all the way from the start. He didn't want to hurt Anka. Instead he focused on opening the boy up, fucking in slow and getting a little bit deeper with every thrust. Anka was biting his lips again now, plainly trying to hold back moans. He liked fullness in his arse, Summerstoke knew. And kindness. He liked being fucked like his pleasure mattered. </p>
<p>He'd had that so rarely, after all.</p>
<p>There was inside him a little spongy nub, as with all men. When Summerstoke fucked in deep enough he found it, and then it was a game of delaying his own pleasure to see how many times he could hit it. Anka's cocklet stood straight up at that, wired to the sensations of that nub. Anka's eyes rolled back and now he couldn't help but let out little cries. </p>
<p>The vision he presented was stark and lovely.</p>
<p>Bardolph, regrettably, evidently thought so too. Now the king rose and grabbed one pretty tit. Still stroking himself, he brought his big ugly head to drink from it roughly. Anka's pleasured expression gave way to a hint of pain. It was all Summerstoke could do to keep fucking into him, instead of simply killing the monarch where he stood.</p>
<p>But fuck into Anka he did. He was working him open well enough to take almost the whole length now. With a hand, he found the nub above Anka's cunt and rubbed it, rubbed it until Anka shuddered. </p>
<p>The dryad came from his cunt, came beautifully. Came with his eyelashes fluttering, a cock in his rear and nothing in his cunt at all. Just Summerstoke's hot, skilled fingers pleasing his little bead.</p>
<p>Before Summerstoke took his own pleasure, he made Anka come twice more like that. Just fucking him full and paying attention. That was all it took. Not the pain, not the degradation. Just this.</p>
<p>By then Bardolph had sat back and stroked himself off a few times, evidently pleased. Summerstoke spent his own pleasure inside Anka, now a dazed, almost-surprised Anka, still shuddering from the aftershocks of his third orgasm. Summerstoke then gathered the dryad up in his arms.</p>
<p>This might be his one chance to do it. To hold him. Anka was so fine-boned and fragile, hiccuping a bit. Summerstoke patted his hair.</p>
<p>"He is perfect, my king," he managed to say hoarsely. "Absolutely perfect. To have him is -- is to need no other."</p>
<p>He meant it. He meant every word of that. He dared to press a kiss to one pointed ear.</p>
<p>"Perfect," he whispered, just for Anka.</p>
<p>Those big dark eyes looked up at him. Anka's reply was so low, so soft, that only Summerstoke could hear it.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, something very sad in his eyes. "Thank you. The perfect fuck. You made me so, your lordship."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oof. Way to make him feel like shit, Anka.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Rages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kouvi in the country; Anka on the horse; wait, you two know each other?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the country, Kouvi had woken up enraged.</p><p>Enraged on the first day. Enraged nearly every day. This was normal for Kouvi. Kouvi had spent a lifetime enraged. Kouvi had been enraged ever since the Royal Exploration Company had killed his mother and ripped him and his clutch from the trees. Kouvi had been enraged on the ship to Monrovia, and enraged when he'd shivered in a cage in the center of Holshire Park. Kouvi had been enraged when a fine lord had bought him and he'd begged the lord to also buy his clutch, and enraged when he'd seen a clutchmate freeze to death a few months later while another fine lord tried desperately to warm the dying dryad, to no avail. Kouvi had been an enraged runaway, an enraged beggar, an enraged whore. An enraged pirate. </p><p>Kouvi would have been extremely confused, and indeed disappointed in himself, if he had ever lost his rage. </p><p>But even he had to admit that the rage took on a special tint when one moment he was in the city, on the verge of rescuing Orrak, and the next he was blinking in a familiar country bedroom, blinking at the cabbage rose wallpaper and the autumn-tinged trees outside the big window.</p><p>"Fuck," he'd told the trees then.</p><p>In the chair next to his bed, Geraldine Westruther startled awake. Kouvi had always liked Geraldine despite himself. She was a plainspoken woman, younger but far less demanding and spoilt than her brother the Earl. When Summerstoke had found Kouvi in a brothel and brought him to the country to serve as a fuckpet, some six or seven years ago, Geraldine had reserved endless criticisms for her brother's lusts, but none for Kouvi. They had become friends. </p><p>Kouvi despised all Monrovians on principles, but some of them were better than others. Sometimes in a lordly house you would find a lonely, clever young woman who was almost too good to be a Monrovian. Geraldine was one of those.</p><p>"How are you feeling?" she said at once. "Covey, you've given us such a scare!"</p><p>She did not ask where Kouvi had been, although she could have. After about a year with Summerstoke, Geraldine had been the one to notice that Kouvi was growing increasingly weak. Kouvi had been on the verge of his <i>pre-dinkala</i> but not sure he would survive to complete it, for the years of Monrovian winters had been taking their toll. Geraldine had recommended Summerstoke take Kouvi to D'laniaa, and researched how it could best be done. Summerstoke, however, had not wanted Kouvi in D'laniaa. He'd wanted Kouvi in his bed.</p><p>Kouvi supposed his lordship must have been very, very surprised when the first thing Kouvi did after the <i>pre-dinkala</i> came was steal a heap of coin and run away back to his homeland. But Geraldine would not have been surprised.</p><p>Now she fussed over him, adjusting his blankets to ensure he was warm and bringing him a hot mug of tea to drink. As she did, the door opened and the third sibling, Jem, came in, followed by a golden-haired human Kouvi only half-remembered.</p><p>"Dash it, he's looking loads better!" said the human. "Hello, Covey! Never thought I would see you again! Nice to have you back in Monrovia, though!"</p><p>As though Kouvi were only paying them a social call. Freddie Audley had always been a bit stupid, Kouvi remembered now. Now he was stupid with a golden mustache, one that made him look like he'd decided to take a role in a music hall.</p><p>Freddie said, "I won't be a bother! The boys wanted to look in at you and Euphemia and Geri said they could, but, dash it, Kip's gone and left his Taverner here."</p><p>He rummaged about in the cushiony window seat and produced the Taverner, which was a sort of ragdoll of the kind the Earl's father Urk was good at making. It had blue button eyes and a small military uniform.</p><p>"There it is! We're playing at making a treaty with the Norderlands. Awfully good fun."</p><p>Jem only grunted. He reached over and with a big hand tousled Kouvi's hair, then followed Freddie out of the room. </p><p>"Why is your Wrollf brother playing at offering his neck to Monrovia?" Kouvi demanded, when they had gone. He recalled Jem, Urk, and Geraldine as sensible people, people who had very little love for their so-called great nation, unlike Summerstoke, who was a Monrovian to the bone. He was disappointed now, and angry with them, for the stupid little Taverner doll.</p><p>Why were they even playing with dolls?</p><p>But Geraldine only blinked.</p><p>"Oh, no," she said. "The boys love Taverner dreadfully, but Kal likes to have him lose half the time, so he and father can win the day instead of Freddie and Kip. It's only fair that way, you see. They're too young to be interested in history. They're just five. Five year olds would rather the world be fair than accurate."</p><p>"Five?" Kouvi said. "Geraldine, do you have children?"</p><p>Geraldine actually gave a maidenly blush, coloring her brown skin even deeper.</p><p>"Of course not!" she said. "They're Freddie and Euphemia's. Well. Not exactly Freddie and Euphemia's. Really, they're my brother's wards, in a way. Didn't he tell you?"</p><p>From the window now, Kouvi could now hear the shouts of children. He pushed himself out of bed and staggered to the window seat. By the great tree in the center of the lawn, Summerstoke's father, Urk, was crawling about, his massive potbelly hanging low. A small Wrollfkit was shrieking happily on his back. Jem and Freddie, meanwhile, were helping a fat, chestnut-haired young lady climb the tree, a difficult task given her full rose-colored Monrovian skirts. It was all very pastoral and perfectly sweet, even the treehouse with the little blond figure in it, hopping madly about and waving its green-tipped hands.</p><p>A D'lani. A child. Golden-haired, but oddly dark-eyed. But a dryad child nevertheless.</p><p>For a moment, that little dryad could have been one of Kouvi's clutchmates, long before they'd been captured and enslaved. Kouvi blinked. </p><p>"He got himself another dryad fuckpet?" he rasped out.</p><p>Another one trapped here in the cold. Another one for Summerstoke to use to warm his cock. A dryad Summerstoke had apparently used so well that the second D'lani had borne him a clutch. </p><p>Of course. Kouvi should have known. That was who Summerstoke <i>was</i>.</p><p>"Oh," Geraldine was saying, wringing her hands in the meantime. "Well. That is. We did advise against it, Covey. He wasn't in the right mind to have another dryad. We could all see it. It did seem it wouldn't end any better than you did. But you know him, he must have his way. And in the end he had to give Anka away, actually, but thank the saints not the boys. We've raised the boys. They're terribly good, you know, and it's nice to have children about."</p><p>The chestnut-haired human lady had now reached the little D'lani, and was scooping him up and pressing kisses to his brow. The child looked as if he were only just bearing it.</p><p>Geraldine's words penetrated.</p><p>"Anka?" Kouvi demanded, turning and regarding her again.</p><p><i>Bird</i>. That was not a name for a dryad. Dryads had names that meant virtues, like <i>Kouvi</i> for 'Ambition' and <i>Eleyi</i> for 'Strength' and <i>Hil’ki</i> for 'Generosity.' An Anka was a thing you trained to deliver messages for you, or kept on the terrace to greet guests to your tree. It was like naming a person 'doorbell' or 'fencepost.'</p><p>"Robert named him," Geraldine said. "I suppose Robert did try to be kind to him, in his way. I'd like to think he was kind sometimes."</p><p>Which of course was her very Monrovian way of saying that Robert had not been kind at all.</p><p>-</p><p>Kouvi was more eager to escape back to the Capitol than he was to heal, but as long as Jem was there watching him and dragging him back to the manor every time he so much as wandered near the rail line, he could not. He was forced to spend another three weeks in the Earl's country seat. </p><p>With the little D'lani child and his brother, and the mystery of the poor second dryad. The dryad Summerstoke had evidently ruined because Summerstoke had never been able to leave well enough alone.</p><p>Kouvi, who was good at ingratiating himself with people when he so chose, quickly spotted that in the ample chest of the young Mrs. Euphemia Audley there burned a righteous indignation regarding that dryad. It was in the way she doted on and adored and gave every attention to little D'lani Kal in particular. She would say things like, "Oh, but in his heart he is so <i>very</i> good and sweet, just like dear Anka!"</p><p>She said this when Kal would steal his brother's blankets and swaddle himself in them for warmth, when Kal became upset and threw his brother's Taverner in a ditch because Kip had refused to permit the snowy glory of the Norderlands to triumph over Monrovia, and when Kal accidentally started a fire in the garden and almost burned down the Earl's gazebo.</p><p>Kip was a solid, agreeable little fellow with a mop of black hair, big blue eyes, and nearly-invisible little Wrollf tusks. His sole ambition in life seemed to be to amble about after Jem, Freddie, and Urk and occasionally take a nap in a sun patch. Kal was a green-fingered demon.</p><p>"The darling's full name is of course Kalki Anka Theodore Swansea Audley," Euphemia informed Kouvi one day, when Kal had finally been coaxed into falling asleep in her arms (after a tantrum in which he'd pulled out a great many of her pretty chestnut curls). "Do you know -- Lord Taverner named him? Lord Taverner is <i>such</i> a dear. He sends the boys presents all the time. And when I told Freddie we simply had to adopt them, Cousin Robert of course wanted to refuse, but Lord Taverner reminded him of his--"</p><p>Here she broke off and actually shuddered.</p><p>"--his <i>solemn duty</i> to see these boys as <i>far away as possible from degradation</i>!"</p><p>She'd stared expectantly at Kouvi, plainly desperate to tell Kouvi ten million terrible secrets eating away at her overdramatic little Monrovian soul. All Kouvi had had to do was nod.</p><p>"I know you seem to have seen a very good side to Cousin Robert. So have I! I always have. He's always been so good to me. But, oh, Covey dear, that makes it worse! Makes it ever so much worse what he did to Anka! You never saw a gentler, more graceful, more pretty little creature. <i>So</i> clever and good and quiet. And Cousin Robert made Anka think he was rescuing him, for <i>poor</i> Anka had landed in gaol -- although I'm <i>quite</i> sure he didn't deserve to be there -- and so Anka went with him, and of course we all thought Cousin Robert was helping him and giving him a nice normal job in service, but really Cousin Robert was -- was <i>using</i> him! It's appalling!"</p><p>At this point pretty, plump Euphemia had burst into tears. She'd sobbed so loud she even woke Kalki, who looked extremely annoyed with her. She did seem to Kouvi to be sort of naturally annoying.</p><p>But no one gainsaid her story. </p><p>Jem would only grunt and say, "He got meaner after you, Covey. He'd never lost anything before. He didn't know how to handle it. That Anka is the one that paid for that."</p><p>Geraldine would say, "We knew it wouldn't come to any good. Well, we just knew it, that was all! We all could have been kinder, but it's simply that we knew it was a bad idea from the start!"</p><p>And silent, calm Urk would say, "I cannot be proud of him for it," and would leave it at that.</p><p>But the one who painted the most vivid picture was Freddie Audley. Kouvi charmed him into taking a long walk in the nippy fields around the manor one day, just to hear Freddie's take on the matter of the second dryad. Freddie, he recalled, had never been the sort to shy away from voicing his opinions.</p><p>"Dashed nasty business," he told Kouvi. "You remember Celeste Rivenhall? 'Course you do, you were with her too--"</p><p>Kouvi felt the rage in him rise up, almost swamp out his ability to think. He had served in a succession of Monrovian brothels, himself, before Summerstoke had found him. Celeste Rivenhall's had been the worst. She'd had a natural genius for plunging her whores into utter degradation.</p><p>"He found Anka at Celeste's? I thought your wife said he found Anka in gaol."</p><p>Freddie's golden mustache bristled disapprovingly.</p><p>"Not 'found.' No, dash it, so much worse than 'found.' Anka was some kind of street whore the constables had picked up. Summerstoke got into a sort of pissing contest with Allerton that landed him and Jem in gaol for a night. Well, there he found Anka. And then, dash it, he damned well <i>delivered</i> Anka to Celeste."</p><p>Kouvi had had to stop right there, in the freezing field. Stop and seethe. He felt submerged in his anger, felt it rear up in him and block out nearly everything else.</p><p>"Sent him to her?" he demanded. "I -- I told him what happened in her halls, how horrible she was--"</p><p>"I think that was the attraction," Freddie said, sounding at the very least appropriately disgusted. "He wanted Anka more cowed than you. Wanted him obedient. Dashed thing was -- Anka <i>was</i> obedient. Had never known a home and only wanted someone to be nice to him. Summerstoke could have stuck him in a hall closet and fed him once a week and the boy would have been in his pocket! He was dashed young, too. Fifteen or sixteen or something."</p><p>"That," Kouvi had forced out, "is like a <i>baby</i> to my people--"</p><p>He had been older than that and still considered young when the Royal Exploration Company had stolen him from his home. He couldn't breathe now for how his heart ached for the little dryad, the dryad that Summerstoke had apparently given away, as one would give away an old coat or something.</p><p>"Where is he now?" Kouvi demanded. "Does he live? Does he ever get to see his clutch?"</p><p>Kouvi had never borne a clutch, despite all the years he'd spent in this nation whoring himself. He'd always been relieved about that. It meant that there was at least one pain Monrovia could not press on him: the pain of losing his children as he had his brothers. But this Anka, <i>he</i> had had to face that pain. Summerstoke had forced that on him.</p><p>Freddie was now frowning at all the fields, frowning this way and then frowning that way, shaking his head so his frown was sprinkled in every direction.</p><p>"Dash it, if we could get the boys to him, Euphemia and I would do it. She'd kill me if I didn't help her do at least that. She was great friends with Anka, and it's not as though we don't know Kal and Kip ought to meet their mother. But Summerstoke traded Anka to the king, you know. That's why he's so powerful now. Only Taverner and maybe Allerton have got more power than him. Summerstoke's the better for having responsibilities, I won't say he's not a better man now. He is. But from what I hear Anka got the short end of it -- dashed ugly, how I hear the king uses him."</p><p>Then a pause.</p><p>"I do think Summerstoke feels bad. Summerstoke didn't need the power, you know. He's rich, powerful for his money alone. And of course he made a profit on Anka, when Anka was at Rivenhall's. Forty percent of what Anka earned that woman went into Summerstoke's pocket. Tidy sum. Euphemia thinks we should use if for the children, but I won't countenance it. That's their mother's money, dash it."</p><p>And that -- that right then was when Kouvi realized that, once he escaped back to the Capitol, he was going to have to slit Summerstoke's fucking throat.</p><p>-</p><p>Bardolph had enjoyed the show with Summerstoke, and so for one brief moment after the Earl and Lord Taverner left, Anka was relieved.</p><p>Relieved despite the pain of having to see the Earl, feel him again. For some reason, Anka had assumed Summerstoke might use him roughly. Summerstoke had always been fairly rough. And this time it was good to be rough -- Bardolph <i>liked</i> when Anka was hurt. So Anka had been asking, for once in his life actually asking, for Summerstoke to play to his strengths. To use his natural genius for inventive cruelty and domination.</p><p>But the Earl had done something worse than that, which was to be kind.</p><p>It was better than Orrak's tongue. Better even than the gentle way Taverner touched him. Summerstoke was too imposing, firm, and decided to ever really be gentle. But Summerstoke <i>trying</i> to be was enough -- was even better. He'd stroked the sensitive skin of Anka's cunt, purposeful and determined, knowing just how to make Anka ready for him. Anka had been fairly sure that, had his lordship actually plumbed him there, only a single stroke would have been needed to have him shuddering and shaking, crying out his pleasure on the Earl's cock.</p><p>But telling Summerstoke to take his rear had hardly produced a different result. He'd worked Anka open so carefully, feeding him a little more of his prick with every thrust. Until the fullness in Anka's arse was overwhelming. Then he had found that sensitive place inside Anka that made it worse, that had the dryad's cocklet straining.  </p><p>It was like he'd wanted to remind Anka that the best pleasures, the best fucks, had always been with him. With Anka's master. By the time Summerstoke's fingers had found Anka's little clit-bead, Anka was fully his again. He could have gotten on his knees and kissed Summerstoke's feet, but for how that would have robbed him of the hot cock splitting him open.</p><p>Only his submission had been too evident. Bardolph had liked the show. But he hadn't liked that.</p><p>"Damn it, you're <i>my</i> whore!" he told Anka now. </p><p>Anka, for his part, could only blink back tears.</p><p>The king had ordered that they bring in the horse. It had been months since Anka had had to climb onto the horse. Anka had been hoping that Bardolph had half-forgotten it. It was an invention out of Mistress Rivenhall's book, and one which made Anka nearly grateful to the brothel madam, for despite all she'd put him through, she'd never made him suffer this. No, this had apparently been used to punish some other dryad before him. Anka himself had never experienced it until Bardolph had decided to recreate it in Castle Voliere.</p><p>Sometimes Bardolph lashed his cunt to make it puffy. Sometimes he punished Anka by attaching weights to the rings in his nipples and cunt, and painfully extending the sensitive flesh there. Once, when Anka had not been quick enough to fall to his knees and suck him off in the stables, Bardolph had had a cock attached to a saddle and made Anka go riding with him, the canter of the horse creating one of the most painful fucks Anka had ever experienced. For before this year, before his spells of forgetting and boredom, Bardolph had been in his own way just as inventive as Summerstoke or Mistress Rivenhall.</p><p>All of those things were better than the horse. Anka sobbed outright on it now. He could not squirm away from how the edge cut into him. He had to squirm, out of pain, but squirming only made it worse. Bardolph had ordered his hands tied, so he couldn't do anything but squirm and squirm, and this meant that the horse's wedge just dug deeper and more cruelly inside him.</p><p>"When I take you down, you'll give my cock the same damned treatment you gave Summerstoke's," the King demanded. "Right?"</p><p>Anka nodded through the tears on his face. He gave the king a watery smile and a nod, rather than pleading for mercy. Pleading never worked with Bardolph.  </p><p>"Damn it, if I'd known that's how you are when you have a new cock in you!" Bardolph said. He'd called for a meal to be brought to the same table he'd been sitting at with Taverner, a many-course meal and also Rivenhall's book. He leafed through it now. </p><p>"Says here you took a damned Snelling in your arse -- that get you all bothered? A Snelling? Born whore like you, maybe that's what you need to make you more interesting. You've been boring me this whole time because you want twisted damned cocks shaking up your insides."</p><p>Anka tried to shake his head, barely able to for the pain wedged right into his cunt. But Bardolph wasn't paying attention to him. </p><p>"Says here you warmed a Drukk's cock for a solid week. So you like a smelly piece of meat in you. Omnion -- already know how you are with Omnions. You ever fucked a Peskie, whore? I bet a Peskie could get a nice rise out of you."</p><p>Anka shook his head again, harder, crying outright now. Peskies had little leeches they attached to you that sucked the blood out of you as they fucked. He hadn't had to fuck a Peskie since he'd left the Tangle. But even now, Peskies were a special kind of nightmare for him. </p><p>Though he was freezing, he was also sweating with pain and fright. The sweat made the horse more slippery and let it cut more easily into him. Now his sobs were loud in the echoing space of the hall.</p><p>"Shut your damned mouth," Bardolph said easily. "I can't abide your damn noise, never can. Think I'll make you take a Wrollf's cock. Wrollves'll fuck your brains out. My cousin Allerton -- not this one, his father -- used to have 'em fuck dryads stupid. That was a show. Even if they were blonde. Never could abide blondes. But that'll make you interesting. You fucking the Wrollf, and me training up that other little one."</p><p>Although Bardolph had told him to be quiet, now Anka's sobs spiked and grew louder, a despairing wail that could be heard all through the halls of Castle Voliere.</p><p>-</p><p>"That was not me at my best," Summerstoke found himself saying to Taverner, in the carriage back to his townhouse.</p><p>He had meant to tell Taverner about Orrak and Covey. But now he kept forgetting precisely what. Kept forgetting most words, in fact. </p><p>Anka. That was the one word left. </p><p>Anka.</p><p>Taverner gave him a few moments. Then, as the wheels rattled over the cobbles by the law courts, he said, "You mentioned your second dryad?"</p><p>"Orrak's mate. He did not drown. He could always swim, you see. And he was a bit more resistant to cold than the average dryad. Like--"</p><p>Like Anka was.</p><p>Taverner stared at him.</p><p>"You have a previous acquaintance with Orrak's mate?" the old general asked, calm but plainly puzzled.</p><p>Summerstoke closed his eyes.</p><p>"Anka was not the first dryad I took for a pet. Just the one I treated worse, John."</p><p>Though he supposed he'd not ever been altogether kind to Covey. Covey had not liked half the things he liked, and what Summerstoke had taken for the mere squabbles of a creature that simply needed time to be tamed, Covey had understood as just more Monrovian attempts to violate him. And Covey had needed, really needed, to be restored to someplace warm. To his homeland. He had endured almost more than Anka by the time Summerstoke had picked him up, and had been very weak. But Summerstoke had denied him that, not wanting to lose Covey to D'laniaa.</p><p>"<i>That</i> is a startling coincidence," Taverner said now. "But not a completely unwelcome one. We can question your new dryad, though, and maybe learn a bit about what has caused such upheaval in D'laniaa."</p><p>Summerstoke gave a mirthless, empty laugh. </p><p>"You can question him. All he really wants to do right now is murder me."</p><p>Still, if anyone could get information out of Covey, it would be Taverner. </p><p>Soon enough they reached the townhouse. All was quiet by this hour, with the maids turning down the lamps. Jem came to the door of his room and peered at them as they passed, nodding to Taverner and receiving a nod in return. He said, "He'll come to in maybe ten minutes. I was just about to head up to him."</p><p>This spurred Summerstoke on faster. Covey was not likely to wake up when one planned. Covey was the sort to only do what he planned.</p><p>Indeed, by the time Summerstoke pushed open the door to the guest room, the dryad was already stirring. Summerstoke stepped aside and held the door open for Taverner. </p><p>The general's blue eyes, steely and calm, found the dryad blinking himself awake in Summerstoke's featherbed.</p><p>And then suddenly they weren't calm at all. They were more intent than Summerstoke had ever before seen them.</p><p>"Kouvi?"</p><p>Covey struggled up, rubbing at his eyes.</p><p>"John?" he said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have been getting so little sleep (for completely dumb reasons) that I actually posted this chapter to the wrong story at first. 😳 </p><p>anyway. get ready for the rest of the plot to be composed of unbelievable Victorian penny dreadful coincidences. that’s how we roll!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Runaways</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter has no porn! Mea culpa! But there is suicidal ideation so please watch out for that if you need to. I’m happy to just give you a detailed summary of the chapter if you need to avoid it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Kouvi worked in the household of the Duke of Allerton," Taverner said. "Not the current Allerton. His father."</p><p>Covey stared sightlessly at the house in question. It was just across the park, and rather larger than Summerstoke's townhouse. It shared no walls or boundaries with the houses around it, and backed onto its own private gardens, a forbidding expanse where the tips of the trees only just brushed the high stone walls enclosing the place. Summerstoke had always thought the ugly building suited Allerton, for all that Allerton now spent most of his time in the castle. But he could not seem to imagine Covey -- vivid, daring Covey -- trapped inside that place.</p><p>Covey who right now would not meet anyone's eyes, and seemed simply to be very far away.</p><p>"Why were you close with Allerton's father?" Summerstoke asked Taverner, giving up on reaching the dryad for now.</p><p>"I wasn't," Taverner said quickly. "But we'd both been at the table when the decision was made for the Royal Exploration Company to annex D'laniaa. It was not precisely the perfect, jeweled city of myth that we had been looking for. But he wanted the D'lani, and I wanted an outpost which we could use to quell the uprisings in Ordania. I regretted my vote almost as soon as I made it. Allerton's next proposition was to declare all resisting D'lani slaves, you see, which was tantamount to enslaving all the D'lani."</p><p>"They told us we were very wrong to not want to give ourselves over to Monrovia," Covey said now, with an eerie calm that made him seem like a different dryad entirely. "So they killed all the adults they could, and took the rest of us to sell in this very square you have here. </p><p>"My brother, Kerrat, had his <i>pre-dinkala</i> on the ship. He arrived here not so pretty and small as Kalki and I. They would have torn him from us and sold him off to whore himself in the slums, but Kalki and I made ourselves very submissive and invited the Duke to stick his cock anywhere he liked in us. I sucked his dirty prick to keep my clutch together."</p><p>His eyes were not wet, but Taverner's now were. Summerstoke blinked at that. He had never -- <i>never</i> seen the old man cry. And yet Taverner was crying. </p><p>"I was often at Allerton's house on business," the general said, shaking his head. "Kalki, Kouvi's brother, was a very sweet and clever thing, much like Anka is. But he was weak--"</p><p>"He froze to death on a cock," Covey said flatly. "They had a party on the terrace overlooking the Duke's garden, and it was winter. He cried to be taken inside. John tried to resuscitate him, but he was gone. They buried him under a tree in the garden, where the Duke's daughter liked to bury her cats."</p><p>"Yes," Taverner said. His pain and regret were clear in his voice. </p><p>"Then Kerrat angered the Duke," Covey said. "He was beaten. Beaten and beaten. Before he died, he told me to run. There was a gate in the Duke's garden, and sometimes the daughter or Judith would sneak out to buy us things we needed. Blankets, usually. Monrovia was so much colder than what we were used to. I had learned from Judith and her daughter how to force the gate open, and now I ran. Then I whored myself. Mostly just to stay warm until I could go back to D'laniaa."</p><p>"I wish I could have helped you," Taverner said sadly.</p><p>"You were in the Norderlands by then," Covey said, shrugging. "I know now you regretted Kalki dying. I met the little one Summerstoke whelped on this Anka. Funny, you naming him after Kalki, John. I suppose it makes sense. You were closer to Kalki than to me or Kerrat."</p><p>Summerstoke would have rushed to correct Covey on the matter of the younger D'lani's parentage, for neither Kalki nor Kip were actually his, but now Taverner had risen and gone to the dryad. He took Covey's young brown hand in his.</p><p>"Kouvi," he said, breathing out deep. "I cannot ask you to help us, for all that I came here to ask--"</p><p>"I may well help you anyway," Covey said. "If you help me. I want Orrak of the Snows. And, John, I want the other dryad. This Anka. I want him freed."</p><p>Now Covey turned to look at Summerstoke, and the hate in his eyes was absolute.</p><p>"I no longer have a clutch," he said. "And this boy -- he has had his clutch taken from him. I want him with me. I want any and all D'lani children he has had. And then Orrak and I, we will take them back to D'laniaa."</p><p>-</p><p>Hermia Lanyon, the Countess of Salford, was not a typical Monrovian.</p><p>She was firm and domineering, to be sure. But there the characteristic traits of her nation ended, for she was an utter failure at being a Monrovian woman. She had failed to appreciate being married to the Count, finding him old and unpleasant, and had reverted to her maiden name upon his death. She did not particularly like that name, associating it with her own old and unpleasant father, but -- very atypical of her -- she also reasoned that the name was hers and thus, woman or not, she had a right to keep it.</p><p>She taught herself foreign languages in her spare time: Ordanian, Eeyanu, Irvidistani. All but Norder-Wrollf, which she detested. It had been her great pleasure, when she had turned seventeen or so, to perfect her D'lani out of a book. She had been raising her own brother at the time -- she was good at raising children. But she had never precisely wanted them, for all that people assumed she was barren and sad and longed for babies of her own. She did not want that, not these days when she was no proper mother to anyone. But she valued family, particularly children. Children celebrated the exploits of Lord Taverner and the Royal Exploration Company because, innocently, they didn't know any better.</p><p>Adults -- adults had no such excuse.</p><p>That day, she had worked diligently to teach Edward his sums. Eleyi, she had discovered, needed no such teaching. Eleyi was a bright little thing, if more distracted than Edward, who could be much more diligent than Eleyi if he was in the right mood. After lessons, she had obligingly taken the children for a walk on the lawns, making sure to bundle Eleyi in particular. The days were getting terribly nippy, as Monrovia's brief autumn gave way to a chill that ought not to have arrived until Wintermass.</p><p>She had therefore seen when two men -- the tall Earl of Summerstoke and the shorter, more grizzled Lord Taverner -- strode across the withered brown grass to their carriage. </p><p>She had turned carefully to block Eleyi, in particular, from their sight.</p><p>Summerstoke she regarded as a degenerate. It was well-known that he had gifted Anka to the king, reduced a kind, beautiful D'lani to little more than a doxy of the lowest sort. He had also attempted, once, to buy little Eleyi. No doubt for perversions so appalling that now the Countess wanted nothing more than for the tall, gingery Earl to drop dead.</p><p>And Taverner -- Taverner who idolized the Wrollves as somehow noble, who had aided and abetted the Royal Exploration Company that had destroyed lovely D'laniaa and caused untold torment to its inhabitants --</p><p>Other Monrovians viewed Taverner as nothing less than a walking deity. But the Countess held no such delusions.</p><p>Thus, when Taverner nodded to Summerstoke and turned away briefly, walking towards the little group on the lawn, she ignored the excited shouts of the children. She held on to little Eleyi in particular, not letting him jump about as his brother did.</p><p>"Lord Taverner! Oh hooray, Lord Taverner!" Edward shouted, skipping across the lawn to the older man. </p><p>Taverner favored him with a careful smile and walked him back to the Countess. </p><p>"Lost my Wrollf," Eleyi said glumly, when the great general was standing before them. "'m sorry, Lord Taverner."</p><p>"It was a very inappropriate gift for a child," the Countess sniffed. She stood four inches taller than Taverner and enjoyed each inch immensely, quite literally able to look down her nose at him. </p><p>"Perhaps this gift is more appropriate," Taverner said. From the pocket of his dress uniform he produced a bright blue ball, which he held out to Eleyi. "Why don't you two go play over there? I need only a moment with your esteemed cousin."</p><p>Eleyi wrenched himself from the Countess' grasp to take the ball, with a joyous whoop. Then the two children were off across the lawn, delighted to have a new toy. The Countess, dismayed, cried, "Edward, don't you dare get mud on your trousers!" for lack of anything better to say.</p><p>Then, bitterly, to Taverner, "Do not think I don't know what you're doing. Assuaging your own guilt. But nothing, <i>nothing</i>, will make you other than what you are."</p><p>He had helped destroy the dryads. Had paved the way for their enslavement. And -- and he had not been able to save Kalki, nor indeed any of the others of that clutch, no matter how much she had begged him to.</p><p>Now Lord Taverner had regarded her as if he too had something inconsolable in him. </p><p>"Hermia, the King proposed today to begin misusing Eleyi. I know you do not trust me, but I suggest this. If you will not entrust Eleyi to Summerstoke, a position I understand even if I do not precisely agree with it, then please. Please, do not block me when I offer to buy the boy. Between us, Hermia, we can get him away from here."</p><p>And then he turned on his heel, leaving the Countess of Salford standing there feeling as though the world were tilting irreconcilably into an utter hell, if indeed it was not there already.</p><p>So now -- now she paced. It was the dead of the night, and she had put Edward to sleep in his airy, regal nursery with the mobiles of golden suns and stars glittering as they hung from the ceiling. And now she was to do what she did every night, and consign little Eleyi to a dark and airless wardrobe. In reach of a man who proposed to do the unspeakable.</p><p>"Want to go wait for Mama," Eleyi complained, wriggling in her arms.</p><p>"No," she said, absolute about it. "Mama will come to us, Eleyi."</p><p>She did not want to let the child go. She did not want to let <i>Anka</i> go, once he arrived. But she would have to. That was why she had brought Eleyi to the little hallway outside Anka's designated bathroom. Bardolph was likely abusing the dryad right now, as he always did, and when it was done Anka was likely to come here first, to attempt to wash away the spend.</p><p>She was not certain what she would propose to him. Taverner's offer might not come off. Bardolph might refuse to sell Eleyi. And Anka -- for Anka to be separated from his child would kill him. And yet to send Anka away from Edward could surely be no better. </p><p>No. No, it would be better. But she did not want to send Anka away. She wanted Anka here with her.</p><p>When the dryad arrived, he was blank-faced and limping. His every movement spoke of pain, pain that even had little Eleyi making mournful noises to see it.</p><p>"Mama!" he cried, and held out his arms.</p><p>"Give him to me," Anka said hoarsely. "Oh, let me just hold him, <i>please</i>."</p><p>The Countess put the child in his unsteady arms. Then she fiercely hugged them both, hugged both the mother and the little child. There were tear tracks on Anka's face, and she discovered that she was mirroring them, crying with abandon herself.</p><p>"Taverner told me," she said. "But, Anka, I will figure something out. I swear it. I will never let him harm Eleyi."</p><p>"My lady," Anka said shakily. "There is no one to stop him if he wishes to hurt anyone. Least of all a D'lani. But -- but if you could distract him, just for tonight. Just give me and Elly one night before he takes what he wants. He's feasting now. Please, please just -- just keep him occupied."</p><p>-</p><p>The Countess did indeed find the king feasting. Feasting before the portrait of her own mother, who, she had no doubt, Bardolph would have used just as roughly as he used Anka if he'd been able to. Certainly, Bardolph had never <i>helped</i> Judith, not even when she'd needed it.</p><p>Hermia now had to choke back her own rage.</p><p>"Cousin?" she said. "Do you remember five years ago, when we were married?"</p><p>Hermia had not wanted it. Charles, her brother, her <i>Charles</i>, he had wanted it. There had been a danger, then, that the King might marry Geraldine Westruther. It had taken Hermia and Charles mere moments when they'd seen Geraldine and her debauched half-brother walking in Holshire Park, to note the prowling, lupine way Geraldine had about her. The Earl was hiding a half-inhuman sister, a sort of bizarre Wrollf mutation. Hermia was not proud to be a Monrovian, but she would have been less proud had Monrovia had a beast like that for a queen.</p><p>Bardolph now simply grunted at her, too busy carving up an entire roast goose for himself to so much as look at the Countess. </p><p>"Lot of good that did me! Marrying a barren harpy like you--"</p><p>"I'm not barren," Hermia said. "I can have children, actually. I just didn't want yours. You wouldn't believe the amount of D'laniaa junglegrass I was eating."</p><p>Now Bardolph looked up. His piggy, horrible eyes looked shocked.</p><p>"Also, that meant I could tell people you'd gone old and impotent. Which by now I hope you have," Hermia continued. "You're a terrible father. Almost as terrible as you were a cousin--"</p><p>"You rotten bitch--" Bardolph began, slamming his heavy fist on the table.</p><p>Hermia just blinked at him. She'd seen so many of these little rages, not just from him but from her father, and the Count, and, really, half the men of the bloody peerage. Monrovian men were tiring, trumped-up little bullies. Even Charles was, though she'd tried so hard to make him different.</p><p>And now she was really getting into the swing of things. Her mouth was running away with her. She found that she hardly even cared.</p><p>"Also, you should know that while I was blonde as a small child, I'm a brunette. I have been for years. I just happen to dye my hair, because--"</p><p>Because it pained her to look into mirrors and see her mother. Because the guilt there was too much. And--</p><p>"--because I hate you so, so much, you depraved pervert."</p><p>-</p><p>Anka gave Elly a bath.</p><p>He gave himself one, too. He needed it more than Elly. But he was gentler with the child than with his own battered body. Himself he scrubbed until the skin was raw, until Elly was crying for him to stop hurting himself.</p><p>He dried the child as best he could, and wrapped Elly in layers and layers of clothes until Elly said he was warm. He pulled on a clean smock for himself after that, and took some of the blankets from the wardrobe to wind about himself.</p><p>"What do you want to do now?" Anka asked then. "We can go to the kitchens. Or to see the Elm Walk. Or we--we can find a windowsill."</p><p><i>We can fly</i>, he thought.</p><p>They would not fly. They would plummet. He just about thought he could bear that if it were only him. But it was his Elly, too. He would be doing something terrible to his child. </p><p>He was crying again now. He was so tired of crying. Elly wrapped himself around Anka's legs and tried to soothe him, and Anka felt despicable. </p><p>"We can -- we can do whatever you want to do, Elly," he said, wiping at his face and trying to calm himself. </p><p>"I want to see the Wrollf," Elly said.</p><p>Not a windowsill. A part of Anka was glad, even if the only solution he could see was a high windowsill. He took Elly's hand. </p><p>The halls of Castle Voliere were mostly empty at this hour, as they made their way to the keep. Anka let Elly lead, the child chattering and playing a pretend-game where they were bold Wrollves of the Norderlands.</p><p>"That's why I have claws sometimes," Elly told him, flexing his green-tipped fingers. Anka tried to look at them as if they were magnificent pretend claws.</p><p>"Do we have tusks?" he asked hoarsely.</p><p>"Mama," Elly said, as if Anka were stupid. "Obviously not."</p><p>Outside, it was bitterly cold. Anka was glad he'd forced Elly into a hat. Elly's little head bobbed and danced in front of him as they crept close to the keep. They were careful climbing down into it, tucking themselves behind walls whenever the soldiers came by. Elly loved this -- he saw it as yet more of the game.</p><p>He was quivering with excitement when Anka turned the key to Orrak's cell. No sooner had Anka pushed open the door than Elly dashed in.</p><p>Only to stop up short.</p><p>Neither of them had ever seen Orrak of the Snows at his full height. Orrak was usually too held down with chains. But now -- now the Wrollf was bleeding profusely, bleeding so much the air smelled of it.</p><p>But he was free. </p><p>He'd pulled his chains from the wall himself, using his own brute body. And standing unchained, he was seven feet tall at least. Anka, briefly terrified, pulled Elly back towards the door.</p><p>"I am scenting lies again," Orrak said, and there was despair in his tone. "I scented my Kouvi, my mate, to be dead. And now I scent him alive. I scent a ghost. I always scent misery like that. Misery is my lot. Kouvi must be dead, but because I scent only things that bring me pain, I am still scenting him."</p><p>Despite his fear, Anka felt a great deal of pity for the Wrollf. </p><p>No. More than pity. Orrak had been right, all those weeks ago. They were the same, him and Anka. They seemed born for nothing but pain.</p><p>"Orrak?" Anka found himself saying, the idea coming to him now that Orrak was out of his chains. "I--Orrak, if you will have me, I accept your proposal. To rescue you. Be rescued by you. To go to D'laniaa. So long as we take Elly, Orrak."</p><p>Elly turned wide, befuddled eyes on Anka. But Anka could only think that this would be so much better than the windowsill. He didn't want Elly dead. He shuffled himself and his child closer to the massive Wrollf, and turned up his face to Orrak.</p><p>Orrak's kiss wasn't Summerstoke's. It didn't electrify Anka. It was barely even a kiss, just a sort of despondent press of the lips. But it gave Anka a brief, meager hope.</p><p>It had been so long since he'd had that. He was a passive, beaten creature, Anka was. He had been willing to stay here, miserable, because he felt himself to be as Monrovian as he was D'lani, and he felt that he needed to do his part to stop Allerton. Because something in him broke at the thought of leaving Edward. Because, despite himself, sometimes he dreamed of seeing his first clutch again, his little Kalki and Kip, though he knew perfectly well he never would.</p><p>No. No, they needed to leave. For Elly's sake.</p><p>"Get on my back," Orrak said now. "I cannot scent well, but I can move fast. I will take four steps for every one of yours and nine steps for the child's. But you must guide me to the docks, because I do not know the way. I scent that we will find no ships to D'laniaa at the docks, but perhaps we will find one to Ordania."</p><p>Anka was leery of climbing on the injured Wrollf, and said so, but Orrak only shook his platinum head.</p><p>"Do not think me weak," he told Anka. "I'm a sorry bastard. But I'm not weak. Now get on my back."</p><p>Elly by now was practically vibrating with excitement. When Anka let him go and Orrak picked him up, he wasted no time in clambering about the big Wrollf so he could swing from his great neck. Anka had a harder time -- he was still so sore from riding the horse.</p><p>But Orrak was right that he moved fast. Anka kept the best lookout he could for soldiers, but by some miracle they did not encounter any on the stairs. In the yard of the keep, Orrak had to fall to his hands and knees, loping behind a line of barrels and cannons to keep from being seen. And half the time a terrified Anka thought they <i>would</i> be seen. Orrak was so big.</p><p>But it seemed that for once they saints were with them. Anka directed Orrak to the Oak Walk, which was dark and shadowy at this hour. Orrak seemed to like the dark. It was better for his slit-pupiled Wrollf eyes, he said. </p><p>At the end of the Walk was a gate to a leafy district outside the Capitol. Anka only half-knew the area, but still tried to give Orrak the best directions he could. It had begun to snow and he and Elly were both shivering a bit, but Orrak did not seem to feel the cold. His vast back was wonderfully hot, and they clung to it like the lifeline it very likely was.</p><p>When they reached the Tangle, the warren of slums by the docks, the slums of Anka's childhood--</p><p>There she was. <i>The Pride of Ordania</i>, with all her black-skinned Ordanian sailors mingling about on the decks. Perhaps Orrak had not scented what they wanted, but Anka thought Orrak had scented well enough. He and Elly slid from the Wrollf's back now. Orrak was panting -- evidently the exertion of running all those miles from the Castle was now catching up with him.</p><p>They had no money. Only Anka's collar, which he made Orrak slice off with a claw while he stood very still. And the emerald gemstones dangling from Anka's cunt, and the fine rings in Anka's tits and ears. Even Anka's silver cockring came off, and though that took a certain amount of pain, Anka bore it.</p><p>It was a relief to get all of these things off. Anka found himself smiling, even as he shivered and ached, and felt fearful of what might possibly come. </p><p>"This will get you passage in a cabin," the Ordanian captain said, when he had reviewed the bounty. "And time on the deck when the weather holds for it. You'll need something more when you get to Ordania, though. And it's hard to work in Ordania. The REC is very strict -- they police the doxies, see? Don't want their own randy sailors getting diseases."</p><p>Anka nodded. Orrak was a little ways away, holding Elly to warm the child up. But the great Wrollf seemed to be swaying now, from bloodloss and exhaustion.</p><p>"How much will we need to then get a ship to D'laniaa?"</p><p>"Four hundred Ordanian at least," said the captain. "But don't worry -- that's only about one hundred Monrovian. And we take the coin of the empire, we do. We don't want to, but we do."</p><p>Anka looked back at the Tangle, at the only home he'd known for much of his life.</p><p>"When do you depart tomorrow?" he asked.</p><p>"Evening," said the Captain. "Why? You think you can make enough money to book passage to D'laniaa in a day?"</p><p>Anka had once sold his cunt here for six pence a fuck. Five for his mouth, seven for his arse. If he doubled that, it would be only nine or ten men he would have to take to have the money. If he tripled it, he'd have to take even fewer.</p><p>He'd fucked so many by now. If he had to take another hundred, that would be a pitifully small number for a practiced whore like him. </p><p>He nodded at the Captain.</p><p>He was a whore. He'd always been one. Now it was time to do what he'd always done: spread his legs and take it. He'd done that when he was no bigger than Elly. He'd never been innocent. He'd always been filthy.</p><p>But if it kept his child safe, it didn't matter. He'd very willingly be filthier still.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Technically, I think it is now possible for us to start putting together answers to Anka’s origins. I kind of raised that in “Anka” and then completely dropped it (sorry, Anka!) but now we’re back on track. </p><p>Also, Anka’s come full circle! I really missed the Tangle, man.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Return to the Tangle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Anka’s back to doing what he does best, baby!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of the sailors was kind enough to give Anka a stiff woolen coat to go over his smock. He offered a pair of trousers as well, but it had been six years since Anka had worn those, and anyway they would only get in the way. </p>
<p>He left Orrak snoring around his tusks. The Wrollf had collapsed into a deep sleep in their tiny cabin, a cabin which was almost entirely full of Orrak. Elly sat snug in the arms of the warm Wrollf and played with a little blue ball.</p>
<p>"No wandering," Anka told him, "or we will never see D'laniaa. Do you understand?"</p>
<p>"<i>You're</i> wandering," Elly said.</p>
<p>"Elly," Anka said. He rarely ever corrected Elly, but he hoped the warning tone in his voice would make the child understand the gravity of this.</p>
<p>"Fine," Elly said, scrunching up his little face. "No wandering. I'll sleep."</p>
<p>And then he curled up against his new Wrollf and promptly did just that, falling into the decided slumber of an overexerted child.</p>
<p>So Anka could leave him for the Tangle.</p>
<p>It was dark, night still, but behind every filthy oilcloth curtain there was a light or two, as the denizens of the Tangle were night-dwellers. Women prowled the corners, pulling up their skirts with little provocation, calling out the pleasures of their cunts to the sailors and wretches that fell out of the dirty drinking halls. Anka passed the Rivermere Tavern, where he'd first sucked a cock, choking under the table while men had laughed above him. He passed the Red Gable, the lodging house where a Wrollf had fucked his first clutch into him. Then, at the bend of Turnkey Street--</p>
<p>Russell Alley. Where he'd shivered in so many doorways, homeless and alone. Where he'd begged in the literal gutter, begged and begged on nights when he had not earned enough to pay for a pallet at the Red Gable.</p>
<p>Where he'd whored himself. Spread out in the mud, so young he ought to have been crying for his mother, with humans and inhumans alike driving into him. Or bent over a barrel, sobbing as he took it in his arse. All so he could collect the take for his pimp and maybe have some left over to feed himself. </p>
<p>He'd thought himself lucky, for all that. It had been better to be raped out here, where he was at least free in his own way, then to be raped just as roughly in the workhouse.</p>
<p>He walked past a number of doxies already plying their trade, moaning and whimpering around a number of cocks. Until he found a tucked-away spot, a doorway in a ruin of a house, partially-lit by a candle in the window above. There he let the coat the sailor had given him drape off one shoulder, though by now he was so cold his hands were blue and his shoulders no better. He tucked himself into the doorway and put a leg on the ledge, spread himself a bit. Give the suggestion of his cunt, like. </p>
<p>He'd done this so many times before, but now, after living in a proper manor and then in a palace, he understood how vulgar it was. How vulgar he was. He'd barely known what he'd been doing, offering himself up like this before. He'd been too young to know how degraded he was.</p>
<p>The snow was still falling, falling faintly but falling, and every snowflake that melted on his skin was painfully freezing.</p>
<p>Soon enough a man found him, a laborer. The laborer grunted at the price Anka demanded. But he came around when Anka pulled up his smock fully and exposed his cunt, the flickering candle over them giving enough light to show the puffy flesh of his well-worn mound.</p>
<p>"Bet you've never taken green cunt before," he found himself saying, slipping instinctively into the cant of the Tangle, "Mine's a proper Switch cunt, it is. Sweeter cunt you'll never find, sir. I'm made to be fucked, I am."</p>
<p>It was almost an easy fuck, too. The laborer wasn't large, not like Bardolph. His little unwashed cock rutted excitably into Anka, who still hurt from the horse, but it didn't really add to his hurt. The worst thing about the fuck was how cold it was outside. </p>
<p>Anka didn't think he should waste any money on a pallet in a lodging house. No, better to just endure this. The dirty little cock fucked and fucked into him, the laborer reaching under Anka's smock and kneading Anka's tits in his frenzied excitement.</p>
<p>"F-five extra, th--that is, sir," Anka panted out, seeing an opportunity. " 'C-cause of the milk, s-see?"</p>
<p>Balls-deep in him, the man didn't argue, just twisted one of his nipples painfully and then let go.</p>
<p>"Damn Switch whore," he grunted. He rooted around in his dirty jacket pocket without interrupting his fuck and produced five pence. Anka grabbed it greedily.</p>
<p>Then he got his tits out. This too was painfully cold, but if it meant more money, he was all for it. The laborer grabbed his tits and got his face in them, really enjoying them. Anka just clenched around his little cock. The sooner this was done, the sooner he could take another and come closer to his goal.</p>
<p>The man came with a great many curses, all of which Anka had heard before. He just nodded at the litany -- whore, bitch, Switch -- and milked the little prick, squeezing his sore, swollen cunt muscles around it. </p>
<p>"Good fuck," grunted the laborer, when he ran out of insults. Anka nodded his thanks. Then he shifted around the thick but warm cum dripping out of him and again put his leg up, got into position again. </p>
<p>Though his teeth were chattering by now, he left his tits out, so as to better attract the next one.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>"He wants the little child," John had said. "Instead of one dryad to use, he wants two, Kouvi."</p>
<p>Kouvi had said: "Of course he does. Your Monrovian king isn't any different from the rest of you. Well, let's give the rotten, shit-eating fuck two dryads, then."</p>
<p>Summerstoke, oddly, hadn't liked this plan. But it wasn't Summerstoke's choice. It was Kouvi's, and Kouvi intended to get into that castle at all costs, both to rescue Orrak and the other dryad.</p>
<p>Naturally, however, things went pear-shaped as soon as they arrived at Castle Voliere.</p>
<p>It was a huge, ugly stone hulk, with innumerable candelabra lighting up the insides, so that Kouvi felt as though he were marching into the belly of a giant D'laniaa fire lizard. Soldiers were running to and fro, and in the center of a vast mirrored receiving hall was the Monrovian king.</p>
<p>Screaming his great ugly head off.</p>
<p>The plan had been for Kouvi to be presented to him, as this poor Anka had been. For Kouvi and the other dryad to then gather up the little child and go to Orrak. There, Kouvi could use the lock picks John had given him to free his mate.  While John brought in his troops to distract the castle guards with drills, all four of them -- Kouvi, Orrak, Anka, and Anka's child -- could make their escape.</p>
<p>Only--</p>
<p>"Summerstoke!" the king was roaring, as soon as he caught sight of them. "Summerstoke, it better not have been you! You'd better not have stolen my damn whore! My damn bitch has gone and taken the elf with him, Summerstoke!"</p>
<p>Kouvi blinked. </p>
<p>Damn, indeed. They had clearly underestimated this Anka. He'd gone and done just what they had planned for him, without Kouvi or Summerstoke or John's help at all. Kouvi felt almost proud, despite how this left him up shit river in a leaking canoe.</p>
<p>"Orrak," he hissed at John, as Summerstoke faced the king and protested his innocence. </p>
<p>John flicked his gaze down to where Kouvi was kneeling on the floor next to him, shivering in a stupid little robe, with a collar about his neck. Summerstoke's idea, of course. He'd always had an eye for how to make a delectable whore out of an honest D'lani. </p>
<p>John nodded. But then the situation rapidly got worse.</p>
<p>"No, I bet it was Hermia!" the king roared now. "Trying to damned well kill me! I bet <i>she</i> helped him, dammit!"</p>
<p>Even John looked shocked at this, and then <i>he</i> was rushing to try and calm the great screaming beast these Monrovians worshipped as their leader. Kouvi was left to shiver on the floor, quite forgotten, as if their plan to rescue Orrak was no more than an afterthought.</p>
<p>Fuck that.</p>
<p>He only needed to get to the huge damp dungeon room below the keep, according to John. Anka was to have opened the doors to that cavernous cell for him, and now they had no Anka. But that was no matter. Kouvi had a way around that.</p>
<p>There were a great many castle guardsmen rushing about, big ugly Monrovians in the gaudy uniforms these people so favored. Kouvi stood, ignoring the cold biting at his limbs, and staggered to one.</p>
<p>He went ahead and punched that one in the face.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Anka took a man in his mouth, and two in his rear. He took two between his tits, and a seventh man he tugged off, just to give his aching holes and sore nips some rest.</p>
<p>Cum was dripping out of anywhere it could by now, when it wasn't going cold and crusted on his skin. His cunt still hurt, hurt terribly. His jaw ached. And the cold was making him woozy and weak, so weak that after the seventh fuck he curled up in the doorway and tried to sleep for a few minutes, even with the snowfall and the heavy spend dripping out of him.</p>
<p>Not for very long. It was still night when his eyes blinked open. The same moll that had been patrolling the closest corner was still there, now on her hands and knees in the dirt while a Peskie plowed her.</p>
<p>Anka blinked at this. It was so familiar, he nearly felt nostalgia. This sort of thing had been entirely normal for him as a child, simply the rhythm of his world. With freezing hands, he counted out his takings while the other whore moaned. </p>
<p>He was close.</p>
<p>One, maybe two men more. For all the familiarity of Russell Alley, he felt so, so relieved. For the first time in his life, he could see an end to it. He'd never seen an end, not really. Each time a man spent in him, he'd known there would be more of that, more cocks slapping his cheeks until he opened his mouth, more of the painful burn in his arse when they forced in without preparation. More cum pooling inside his sore cunt, dribbling out in spurts when they finally pulled out of him.</p>
<p>What would it feel like, to not live always expecting that? What would it feel like, for once?</p>
<p>He closed his eyes again, let himself think of it despite the cold. For some it would be a meager fantasy, but for him it was a dream so great he could scarcely hold it in his mind. </p>
<p>Then he staggered up in his doorway again. Another form was coming down the alley, with the cocksure, braggart walk of a man who had money in his pocket and a half-hard prick already. This one was very large, by the looks of him. But that was no matter. Anka had taken plenty of big men before. He let his voice join those of the other doxies, competing for the man's attention.</p>
<p>"Switch cunt, sir! Green and greedy for your cock, I am. I'll clench proper around your pole -- you've never tried the likes of me! Try me, sir. I'm in milk, too, I am!"</p>
<p>Saints, but he was big. Taller than Summerstoke, taller than Bardolph. His prick would be enormous, Anka was sure. And now he swiveled towards Anka in the dark, and only got bigger as he came closer.</p>
<p>When he came into the little circle of light by Anka, Anka realized why he was so big.</p>
<p>He wasn't a man. He was a Wrollf like Orrak. Just as broad, just as tall and slickly white-blond. But he was far more handsome than Orrak, less bestial and more man-seeming. And the bulge in his well-cut blue trousers was enough to make Anka's voice falter.</p>
<p>"Only five pence f-for the milk..."</p>
<p>Anka trailed off. Though the promise of that big cock had him half-dumb with fright, his mouth was going all wet with thirsty want, too. </p>
<p>The big Wrollf backed him right into the doorway, leering as he leaned over him. The warmth coming off him was enough that Anka, dizzy with its sudden comfort, could barely think to complain.</p>
<p>"Let's see the green cunt," the Wrollf rasped out.</p>
<p>His voice was somehow familiar. Anka blinked at this, but now the Wrollf had a huge hand on his own slender one and was guiding him to his cunt again.</p>
<p>"Spread it, little Switch. I've had Switch cunt before, good cunt too. Little thing was in heat and I found it. I find the jewels in the shitpile, for I'm Yilk the Icepick, and my scent is good. And now it's led me to this cunt. Let me get a good sniff now."</p>
<p>Anka shakily held his outer lips open, revealing the green slit further in, slippery with the loads it had already taken. But his mind was whirring. </p>
<p>He knew this Wrollf. This was the Wrollf that had picked him up years ago, he <i>knew</i> it. Anka might not have Wrollf scent, but he could recognize the voice, the distinctive handsome snarl. The pale blue, slitted Wrollf eyes. This Wrollf had fucked Anka so violently that Anka's cunt had throbbed for a week after, so well that Anka had begged for more of the rough hurt. This Wrollf had left Anka with a swollen belly and milk-heavy tits, and forever after a confused longing to be plowed, knotted, and broken into even more of a whore than he already was.</p>
<p>Anka whimpered. </p>
<p>Yilk the Icepick put a dangerously clawed nail to his slit and scooped up some of the wet there -- not just spend, but now Anka's wet too. The claw only just failed to hurt Anka, offering only that banked Wrollf promise that Anka would suffer soon, suffer and like it. </p>
<p>Yilk sniffed.</p>
<p>He looked perplexed.</p>
<p>Then, oddly, he started laughing, a raspy and weasely sort of laugh.</p>
<p>"You smell of Wrollf, but of no true claiming. You smell of <i>Orrak</i>. Can that worthless brother of mine have come close to finally tasting good cunt, only to let it slip away? Good green cunt -- much darker green than the Switch cunt I had before. You've been fucked and fucked until you are more used and ripe for taking than even the little whore I whelped on once, and <i>still</i> that stupid fuck couldn't land you."</p>
<p>Yilk grabbed him roughly by the hair, making Anka whine in pain. He turned Anka about like Anka was a doll, and then the claw was probing his arse.</p>
<p>"Not even this loose hole! Orrak's always been stupid as shit. He let you wander away and now <i>I</i> will taste you, and once I taste you you'll smell of Yilk for weeks. You'll have to crawl, too, for I'll fuck you until you can't walk. I leave them stupid and broken, little Switch, when I'm done with them. But don't worry, you'll have your pay. Whores amuse me. When they're whining on my prick and have forgotten what they've charged me, it is my pleasure to force the coin into their loose arses and see if they remember to hold it in."</p>
<p>Now he was dragging Anka out of the doorway. Anka yelped and tried to fight him, but Yilk was too strong. </p>
<p>"Where are you taking me? S-sir, please!"</p>
<p>"Yilk doesn't fuck in the street," Yilk said dismissively. "We will get a pallet. And since I am paying for you to have a warm bed, you will give me the first suck for free."</p>
<p>He dragged Anka to the Red Gable, where he slapped some coins down on the barmaid's counter and then pulled the struggling dryad to the great common room in the back, where laborers and sailors and journeymen rented straw pallets to sleep on. Yilk selected a pallet by a grimy window and threw Anka onto it like the dryad weighed little more than a bag of goose-feathers. Anka was hiccuping at the rough treatment, very fearful now indeed.</p>
<p>But, horribly, very wet too.</p>
<p>And Yilk could smell it. He stood over Anka and smiled, slow and dangerous. </p>
<p>"Strip, Switch, or I will tear off your clothes and leave them in tatters."</p>
<p>Anka rushed to obey, despite how this exposed even more of him to the drafty cold of the room. It was dark and he could scarcely see, for his eyes hadn't adjusted yet, but he knew the dark would be no problem to the Wrollf. Yilk would be able to make out every bruise on Anka's well-pawed tits, and the ugly red imprint the cockring had left on his little cock. </p>
<p>"My, my," the Wrollf said silkily. "No wonder you're leaking. You're even more of a whore than the little breeding bitch I once had."</p>
<p>There was the sound of him pulling off a belt. Anka blinked into the gloom and could only just make out the massive pole Yilk freed, the enormous cock that even now, years later, Anka's throbbing passage retained the memory of. He was whining again, this time without fully realizing it. </p>
<p>Yilk gave a chuckle. </p>
<p>"Are you ready to gag on it, slut?" he rasped out. "Open your mouth. Don't worry. I'll be nice and hot in your throat when I choke you stupid. You'll like it."</p>
<p>Anka made a broken sound in the cold and let his tongue hang out, too overwhelmed by the musky scent, the huge cock, the great <i>heat</i> rolling off Yilk, to do much more.</p>
<p>Yilk put the big heavy head of his prick on Anka’s tongue, made Anka taste the precum already leaking out. </p>
<p>Then, without warning, he slapped his heavy belt around Anka’s neck. He slid it snug into a noose. Then he forced his huge pole in, and <i>tightened</i>. </p>
<p>Anka shrieked and spasmed. But it wasn’t any use. The big cock was prying open his throat, and his air was going, going, from how the belt tightened. He fought and heaved and still could get no air. </p>
<p>And the more he gasped, the more his mouth opened up for the huge cock. </p>
<p>Distantly, just before he passed out, he realized that the other men in the room, the laborers and costermongers in the other pallets, all the many denizens of the Tangle, were already starting to straighten up and pull out their own pricks, eager to enjoy the show.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Uh-oh. Seems like Yilk is maybe...a bad guy? Who could have predicted this (besides everyone)??</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Yilk the Icepick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kouvi meets another old pal; Summerstoke's Wrollf wins out; Anka on the pick; Yilk pulls back the curtain; at the gate of the workhouse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Orrak was not in the keep, so it seemed Kouvi had gotten himself thrown in there for no reason at all. </p><p>He could have screamed. The guardsmen had set on him and beaten him for a good twenty minutes, even while John rushed to try and prevent them. Or he thought John had. Kouvi himself had passed out quickly from the pain, and woken much sorer in places than he ought to be. Filthy, cold man's cum trailed out of his arse and his mouth was sore from use. And he was lying in this vast freezing dungeon, in a puddle of damp, and Orrak was nowhere and he was ready to <i>scream</i>. </p><p>Instead he coughed, and the form that was decidedly not Orrak -- too curvaceous, not tall enough, too female -- said, "Oh, Kouvi, darling. Oh, my darling," and wept into his shoulder.</p><p>"...Hermia?" Kouvi said, when he had recovered his voice and also realized precisely who this other person was.</p><p>It couldn't be Hermia. Hermia who had snuck his clutch blankets and cried over their wounds, who had once tried to face down a Wrollf for them even as her own father had jeered at her. Who'd buried Kalki in the garden rather than letting his body go to an abattoir. Who'd shown Kouvi how to jimmy the garden lock open so he could eventually make his escape.</p><p>But it was her. She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed and sobbed.</p><p>"What are you doing here?" Kouvi asked her dumbly.</p><p>"I tried to kill Bardolph. It was very stupid. I didn't have a plan. My only thought was to kill him and then, somehow, get Eleyi and Anka away, and--"</p><p>She stopped. Took in a breath,</p><p>"Kouvi, have you come for him? Is that why you're here, for Anka?"</p><p>She was half-right, so Kouvi nodded.</p><p>"Kouvi," Hermia Lanyon said into the dreary shadows of the keep, "I've failed him. I let him be hurt and hurt and hurt, until -- until even a creature as selfish as me would rather have died than see him hurt another minute. He's seen such agony--"</p><p>"But you tried to help him," Kouvi told her gently. "You tried to protect him. You were always more kindhearted than you seemed. And now he's run off. Maybe your attempt to kill Bardolph even bought him the distraction he needed to do so."</p><p>Just like she'd done for him once. Pitching a fit in the Allerton townhouse to try and draw the Duke's men off of Kerrat. He'd been able to cling to his bloodied brother one last time, hear Kerrat begging him to escape. And then, because Hermia Lanyon had been drawing off the eyes of all the humans, he'd been able to do as Kerrat bid him.</p><p>Kouvi normally didn't care if humans were in pain, but it hurt him now to hear this one crying.</p><p>"And Eleyi--" she forced out, "Has Anka taken him? Oh, please tell me they're both gone--"</p><p>"Both slipped away," Kouvi promised her. "And may they run far from here and never be caught."</p><p>Orrak, too. Anka and his babe had probably taken Orrak. Rescued him. So now Kouvi owed the other dryad a great debt, it seemed.</p><p>"He ran off," Hermia was hiccuping. "Oh, thank the Saints. Thank the Saints. He's run just the way you did. Run before he--"</p><p>This time when she broke off, it was with a sound so pitiable and despondent that Kouvi knew precisely what she was thinking of. Kalki, frozen to death and still being fucked, though he'd gone limp and half the onlookers had realized it. And Kerrat -- Hermia had always loved <i>Kerrat</i> best--</p><p>"He--he stuffed him," Hermia sobbed out now. "In the study, Kouvi. Like he was an animal to be put on display. For years I had to look at that, at the sightless eyes--"</p><p>It took Kouvi a moment to comprehend what she was saying. Stuffed? The old Duke, the vicious human that had called himself their clutch's master, he had loved his stuffed pets. His taxidermied creations: birds, deer, foxes, dogs. </p><p>And apparently D'lani.</p><p>He thrashed in Hermia's arms without realizing he was doing it, so pained and furious he seemed unable to help himself. His brother, brave and tall and handsome, <i>stuffed</i>--</p><p>"It was to be a lesson for me," Hermia kept sobbing. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. And you, you look--"</p><p>"Just like him," Kouvi said hoarsely. "Save the eyes. But just like him aside from that."</p><p>Now past his pre-dinkala, he must resemble his brother a great deal. But Kerrat had had one unusual feature. Eyes like a D'Nara. Their clutch was of the line Weds-Leaves-To-Sea, so each of them had had something of the D'Nara. Kerrat had had the dark eyes, Kalki, the occasional claws. Kouvi, he had taken extremely easily to swimming.</p><p>"Yes," Hermia sobbed out now. "But Anka has them. Anka has them, and Eleyi and Edward too."</p><p>And this -- this confirmed the odd little suspicion Kouvi had had, when he'd first seen that little D'lani out in Summerstoke's country seat. The one that had looked so very much like a clutchmate. </p><p>But now, at the last, Kouvi had no clutchmate but this human crying pathetically into his shoulder.</p><p>He held her, because that was all he could do. Were Orrak here, the great Wrollf could have broken the keep door easily, but Orrak was not here. And the lock picks Kouvi had brought in -- reaching around for his pocket did not produce them, because they'd torn the stupid robe off of him to better use him while he was unconscious. So he had no pockets and he had no lock picks. He had only his brother's <i>avva</i>, consigned here with him to this keep. </p><p>He could not tell how long they lay there on the floor, holding each other. It might have been a week. Grief did such strange things to time, after all.</p><p>But, more likely, it was less than an hour. Less than an hour before a key turned in the lock. Kouvi looked up at once, expecting to see more Monrovians, more of these savage men who longed only to hurt those weaker than them.</p><p>But when the door creaked open, there, silhouetted in the weak keep light, was only a very fat little human boy.</p><p>"Cousin Hermia?" he called out nervously, peering into the gloom. "Are you in here? Elly showed me which one was the right key last week. I was supposed to go with him to see the Wrollf, but I was frightened. But -- but I don't know where he is, and someone needs to rescue <i>you</i> from the Wrollf, cousin Hermia."</p><p>-</p><p>Summerstoke had not meant to add to all the chaos at Castle Voliere, he truly hadn't.</p><p>But Anka was gone. Anka was missing, Anka was who-knew-where, just when they had perhaps found someone willing enough and clever enough and ruthless enough to help Summerstoke rescue him. Just when Summerstoke had been about to make things <i>right</i>, and send the dryad to where he belonged, to where he stood a chance of not suffering so much. To D'laniaa. </p><p>Damn him, but he'd wanted to give Anka that gift. To prove to Anka that he was not the beast that had once delighted in ruining the young dryad. He wanted to offer Anka something <i>good</i> for once, so that he could see for a single moment something like true happiness in those dark eyes.</p><p>He barely processed Bardolph's shouts, or the shouts of the guards. Or Taverner calling for his own men. He blinked when Covey was struck down and dragged away. Taverner was attempting to engage with the castle guard to prevent that, but then he turned, caught sight of Summerstoke standing there uselessly, and went white.</p><p>The old general bit off a curse and then he was running to Summerstoke. Without warning and with that astonishing, sudden strength he always had, Taverner managed to shove Summerstoke into an empty room just off the receiving hall.</p><p>"Robert!" he said sharply. "Your eyes! Damn you, man, they've gone slitted!"</p><p>Summerstoke looked down at his wrists, and there was the snarl of hair spreading. Spreading past his cuffs, and onto the back of his hands. More hair on his chest, too, in a band that would reach down to his thighs. And he could feel himself going taller, and his trousers bloody bursting at the seams.</p><p>He was transforming. He'd never done it before without meaning to. Now he blinked at himself, unable to comprehend why the Wrollf in him was forcing itself to the surface.<br/>
But no. No, he knew why. </p><p>Anka would be out in Monrovia just as the last warmth of autumn gave way to freezing. Anka and his little child would be out on the streets, out in wilds that were so, so much worse than the jungles Anka's people hailed from. </p><p>They could be hurt. They could be hungry. Someone like Summerstoke could come along and snatch them up, just as Summerstoke had already done once to the dryad, simply for the perverse delight of tormenting both Anka and Eleyi like they were little more than animals.</p><p>Summerstoke the man had never felt quite so terrified or despairing. Usually it was the Wrollf that was the weaker, the more anxious. But now -- now that the man considered all the hideous things men could do. So now the man was the one curling up, self-hating and miserable. </p><p>No wonder the Wrollf won out. </p><p>Even though the transformation was useless. Summerstoke had never had the scent other Wrollves did. His brother, Jem, had a bit of it. Only a bit. Mostly Jem just had the look of a Wrollf. Only their sister, Geraldine, had anything like the sort of prophetic nose a real Wrollf could be proud of. </p><p>But Summerstoke's mind still strained to grab hold of anything, any smell, <i>anything</i> that could point to Anka.</p><p>"Get yourself under control!" Taverner said. "I will put the army out to look for him, with orders to return him and Eleyi to me. Now, in the meantime, you and I need to free Kouvi and the Countess of Salford."</p><p>"The Countess?" Summerstoke demanded. "Why the Countess?"</p><p>Taverner gave him a quelling look.</p><p>"Have some decency. She is a woman."</p><p>"She is Allerton's <i>sister</i>. And she has no care for Anka. She was raised in that damned dryad-abusing hell of the Allerton townhouse--"</p><p>"The Countess has never abused a dryad," Taverner said, short about it. "I know you have had your differences with the woman, Robert, but she cares deeply for the D'lani. I expect that she has done everything in her power to protect Anka and his children, just as we have."</p><p>This was so ludicrous Summerstoke almost wanted to laugh. But now something came on him. Something so small, so faint. It was less a scent than a sensation, faint but clear as the tinkling of Anka's little bells. Summerstoke breathed in deep and tried to focus on it.</p><p>"The Tangle," he realized, hoarse and abrupt. "John. John, I think he will end up in the Tangle. If he's not there already."</p><p>And there were so many boltholes in that wretched slum that it could take all night to try and find him. But try Summerstoke would. The Gin Tangle was no place for Anka. It never had been.</p><p>Taverner had fought the Wrollves, and understood enough of them to apparently recognize a Wrollf in scent now. He nodded once.</p><p>"Then you search," he told Summerstoke. "I will attempt to free the Countess and Kouvi. But for saints' sake control this Wrollf-change of yours, bank it until you are out of the palace. And go -- go quickly! Anka tells me that Allerton has Wrollves in his service, and if he does perhaps even the king does. There may be others out there tracking the scent even now."</p><p>So Summerstoke forced away his Wrollfhood. He had to, just long enough to get out of the castle and into his carriage again. As soon as he was back in his townhouse he was shouting for Jem. The two of them could roam the Tangle together, searching for Anka. Summerstoke peeled off his suit and then rooted around his brother's room for simpler, less elegant trousers and a shirt, something that would not attract so much attention.</p><p>"Robbie," came a deep voice from the doorway. </p><p>Summerstoke turned away from the mess he was making of his brother’s room. </p><p>In the doorway stood his father and sister. Geraldine was in a stunning deep blue traveling dress and Urk in the rougher clothes that denoted him as his daughter’s servant, but they wore identical shocked expressions that marked them immediately as parent and child. Just behind them loomed Jem, looking sour. </p><p>“What’s mine is yours, then,” he snapped at the heaps of sketches and charcoals and paint tins Summerstoke had unearthed from his drawers. </p><p>“Anka is gone,” Summerstoke forced out. “Run away. I have to go to the Tangle to look for him.”</p><p>“The Tangle?” Geraldine said, aghast. </p><p>“Aw, let the poor little fuck alone, Summerstoke,” Jem said now, very roughly. “As if you haven’t ruined his life enough, now you’re — what? Tracking him for the king?”</p><p>“Never,” Summerstoke spat out, with such force it came out like a bark. </p><p>Then the strangeness of having his whole family here descended on him.  </p><p>“What are you doing here?” he asked Geraldine and their father. “You never come to the city.”</p><p>“We came for Covey. Seemed he might do something unwise, and if he did we wanted to help him out of whatever scrape he’d as set his mind to,” Urk said slowly. “But seems as there’s another dryad, Robbie, as may need our help more.”</p><p>Summerstoke stared at them. Jem and Geraldine had never even liked Anka, and he said so. </p><p>“We didn’t like <i>you</i>,” Geraldine snapped. “What a bully you were with Covey at the end, and what a bully you planned to be when you finally made yourself the slave you wanted of that Anka!”</p><p>Her hands twisted now in her skirts, but her voice stayed firm. </p><p>“We weren’t fair to him because of that. I’ve thought of that often, and so has Jem. We can’t look at the boys without knowing how unfair we were to their mother. So I’d like to help Anka if I can.”</p><p>“Me too,” Jem put in. “Used him badly a few times, didn’t I? Owe him my help now. How d’you know he’s in the Tangle?”</p><p>“I scented it,” Summerstoke admitted. </p><p>Jem’s reply was jeering now. </p><p>“<i>You</i>? Get the scent?”</p><p>Urk shook his head, however. </p><p>“Robbie’s got as much the Wrollf in him as any of you. All sons are sons of Lumo are Wrollves, and he’s my boy and no less a son of Lumo than I am. Even if he ignores it. The scent give you anything more, Robbie?”</p><p>Summerstoke shook his head. He turned pleadingly to Geraldine — she had the best scent of any of them, stronger than their father’s. Something to do with being female, according to Urk. <br/>
But she was curling her lip like whatever she scented was far too much for her. </p><p>“It’s this dreadful city,” she forced out. “It’s worse than having to take a train. All the scents get tangled and intense here. It’s not like in the country where I can pick them out. Here I’m confused. I’m not sure I could pick out any more than Robert has.”</p><p>“Well,” said Jem, with the sly inappropriate humor that always came on him when there was reason to despair. “That’s that. We’re fucked. Anka goes free, and good for him even if it’s bad for Robbie, I say.”</p><p>“He’s got his little child with him and it will soon be the dead of winter, you brute!” Summerstoke snarled. </p><p>He was apparently so vehement that even Jem took a step back, raising his hands in surrender. And now Summerstoke realized that he was changing again despite himself, breaking the Wrollf out again. </p><p>“Calm,” Jem said, like he was talking to a wild dog. “That was what we call a joke, it was. I have a few contacts down in the Tangle drinking halls we can call in.”</p><p>“Or,” Urk put in now, “We can try a Wrollf with even greater scent. A Wrollf of the line unbroken.”</p><p>“Where on earth are we going to find one of those?” said Geraldine. </p><p>Urk’s black brows arched up, as if he was surprised that she didn't know. </p><p>“Right here,” he said. “A great prince of the Norderlands travels to the Capitol now and then. I cannot scent so well here either, myself, but I can scent that he is in residence. Yilk the Icepick.”</p><p>Summerstoke felt a brief little hope flutter up in his breast. </p><p>Jem quashed it. </p><p>“Oh no!” he said, after a few choice curses. “Not fucking <i>Yilk</i>, Da!”</p><p>Urk stared at him, astonished. </p><p>“What’s wrong with Yilk? He is said to be swift and bold and great, with the finest scent of any save the Wrollfmaidens.”</p><p>But now Jem was pacing behind them in the hall, hitting a fist to his palm like he was itching for a fight. </p><p>“Remember when we landed in gaol?” he burst out. “When Robbie found Anka? Because we’d burgled the bloody Countess of Salford—“</p><p>“She was blackmailing me,” Geraldine said at once. “She didn’t want me to marry the king. But that wasn’t your fault—“</p><p>“I know it wasn’t!” Jem spat. “It was Yilk’s! Come up to me in the bloody drinking hall the night before and got a good scent of my plans, like—“</p><p>Summerstoke swallowed hard. He’d always wondered just why they’d been caught. They ought not to have been. They ought to have made a clean getaway. </p><p>“He’s a rat!” Jem said now. “He makes his living selling out other inhumans, Yilk does! He’s a selfish, brutal, evil fucking <i>rat</i>.”</p><p>-</p><p>Anka came to, and his throat was a burst of pain. </p><p>Worse than that, now his arse was on fire. </p><p>The sound of Yilk’s belt whistled. Then it hit his backside, the buckle cutting in painfully, and Anka jerked and let out a ragged scream. </p><p>“Awake at last,” Yilk said. </p><p>Anka heard him drop the belt. But he could feel that the damage was done — Yilk had ruined his throat, then whipped him until he jerked awake for more ruination. </p><p>Yilk forced the tip of one claw into Anka’s back hole now. With his other hand he kneaded the stinging backside that had Anka heaving up big shuddering breaths between his tears. As Yilk did that, Anka could feel how loose and wrecked his arse hole was. </p><p>Yilk had apparently done more than just hit it. That explained why that back passage was on fire, too. </p><p>“Th-that's fifteen you owe me for my arse," Anka forced himself to say. His voice was weak and pitiful, but he had to say it.</p><p>Let Yilk choke him, and beat him bloody. Let Yilk ruin his holes. Anka could take it -- he had taken worse. But, oh, let him get fucking <i>paid</i> for it. So he could crawl away with his coin and make the boat to Ordania, and from Ordania bring himself, and his child, to a place that could be a real home for them. To a place where neither of them would ever have to do this.</p><p>He expected Yilk to pick up the belt again, or perhaps to grab him by the hair and rough him around some other way. Yilk did grab him like that, bringing tears to Anka's eyes. But he didn't hurt Anka right away. He laughed. </p><p>"Oh, you are a tough little bitch,” he said, amused as anything. “Fifteen? Alright. But only if you keep them in you.”</p><p>And then his painful claw was forcing the cold coins into Anka’s arse. They were so cold and Anka so sore that it burned. He blinked back more tears, wiped away the snot on his face. </p><p>“If they fall out they’re mine,” Yilk taunted. “Because I pay for your holes. But this hole — this one is so well-fucked that it was loose when I started and looser when I was done. When I pulled out, I pulled a dirty green rosebud out of you. I had to shove it back in you with my cockhead. You should be thanking me for that.”</p><p>Anka heard himself make a broken sound. He couldn’t know if Yilk was telling the truth, except that it felt like the truth. He could barely seem to clench around the freezing coins in his arse. Everything back there seemed to have been fucked into disorder, and the absolute pain and humiliation of it was clouding his mind. </p><p>When Yilk was done, Anka heard him pick up the belt again. At this, his brain whited out into fright. He tried to curl up instinctively, crying into the harsh straw of the pallet. Still trying to clench and hold in the cold bits of metal that he'd earned.</p><p>"Oh, come now," Yilk chided. "Where's your bluster, little bitch? I thought I'd finally found a whore that could keep up with me. Here -- I know how to help you keep those coins in."</p><p>He grabbed Anka's right leg and his right arm and yanked the arm back, sudden and painful. Anka shrieked. In the dark, he could see all the other men in the pallet room leaning forwards, interested in this next part of the show. Yilk was maneuvering him like he was barely a person, just a thing to arrange. Anka found his right hand roughly tied to his right foot. Then Yilk picked up Anka's now-ragged smock. Quickly, whistling happily, the massive Wrollf repeated this sudden torment, bending Anka's left arm back and wrapping the smock around Anka's remaining green-tipped appendages. </p><p>Anka, crying freely and loudly now, was left balanced on his stomach, contorted into something like a ball. The uncomfortable position did nothing to keep him warm, and added an additional burn in his overstretched limbs. And while it did force the globes of his arse together a bit, now his cunt was completely free to be taken from behind. </p><p>Yilk chuckled again. Anka heard him moving and then felt it -- his big cockhead. Fat and hard, too thick even for Anka's well-worn cunt. Yilk didn't bother to stretch him or prepare him. Yilk simply pushed in, and the huge invasion made Anka give a ragged scream. </p><p>It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it <i>hurt</i>. Wrollf cock was too thick to take like this, to have forced in without mercy. Yilk was ruthless and slid in with one great thrust, and this time Anka was not in heat and not wet enough to feel pleasure at the intrusion. It was just violent. The huge pole forced him open, so that one moment he was merely sore and the next he knew only that hard ramrod pain fucking in past his cervix, ruining every part of his cunt just as it had ruined his arse.</p><p>Anka was making guttural, wretched noises. Inhuman noises that proved him less a person and more a cocksleeve. His face was covered in tears and snot, and he could scarcely breathe. Yilk grabbed his tied hand-feet and rocked him back onto that huge cock, rocked him deep so that the big hairy Wrollf balls slapped his cunt lips. </p><p>Anka could only cry more, cry loudly and stupidly. The Wrollf was in him so deep he was laying waste to Anka's womb. If Anka were not tied up like a pretzel he was sure he would see the thick cock distorting his abdomen.</p><p>Then Yilk rocked him back and impaled him, pulling up Anka up from the floor enough that Anka <i>did</i> see it. His cock bulging in Anka's stomach. Rearranging Anka from the inside. Anka whined again, defeated. </p><p>"How much is the cunt, then?" Yilk rasped in Anka's ear. "Or can't you speak, slut?"</p><p>The enormous cock fucking his womb was more painful than perhaps any Anka had ever taken. More painful than Bardolph's whip, and even more painful than riding the horse. But Anka was a whore. He'd struggled to be a whore, to be here and now, earning something for his cunt, rather than just giving it up like a slave. He thought dimly, through the pain, that <i>that</i> was a greater evil still. How, thanks to what Summerstoke had done to him, he'd been nothing but a cockslave for five years, how he'd not even had the dignity left to show a spark of rebellion and demand something for his troubles. </p><p>"T-twenty five," he managed to say, heaving the words up out of him despite the pain. "F-for a cock th-this big. A-and th-that's a b-bargain."</p><p>For a moment, Yilk was still and shocked. Clearly, he had expected Anka to be completely past speech. Fucked stupid. </p><p>He started laughing again, and now it was almost a shocked laugh. He rocked the dryad forward, back onto his stomach, and the huge cock slid partway out. Anka sobbed now from relief. His poor womb. His poor, poor womb.</p><p>"Twenty-five is high, but well-earned," Yilk rasped out. Now he was forcing more coins into Anka, and Anka counted them out as he clenched around them, clenched his loose and bleeding arse and kept them in as best he could. </p><p>"No wonder you didn't fuck that stupid shit, Orrak," Yilk mused. "You need a real Wrollf, little bitch. One up to the task of breaking this hungry cunt."</p><p>And then he was fucking in, just as fast and deep as before. Anka was rocked back again, to take the enormous prick right back into his agonized hole. Yilk knocked the air from him, made him give a broken gasp. </p><p>"Arch your back more now," the Wrollf taunted. "Get those tits out. The others want to come on you, little bitch."</p><p>And with a claw he was beckoning the laborers and journeymen and costermongers, the men greedily stroking their own pricks. They came forward now, tugging their unwashed, meager cocks from their ragged trousers. </p><p>"Fine bitch," one moaned. "Love to see a fine bitch plowed like this."</p><p>Then he was coming, painting Anka's chest with his cum. Another joined him, and another. Their moans drowned out Anka's own whimpering cries. As Yilk fucked Anka brutally, some nine or ten men clustered around the dryad and painted him in new spend. He shuddered through it. The jets of it were warm at first. A little bit warm. And he was so hurting and so cold.</p><p>But now he was more used to the pain. He was feeling how hot Yilk was. Hot inside him. Hurting him with the hot, but still the warmest thing in Anka's world and therefore all of Anka's world. And, past the pain, there was an absolute fullness, too. Anka had never been so full. One of the men reached down and pulled on one of his green nipples, and that minor pain felt good to him, because his brain could not sort it past the heat and the fullness.</p><p>Yilk grunted.</p><p>"Bitch is wet again," he told his audience. "That's right, bitch. You like Yilk's pick carving you up inside, don't you?"</p><p>Anka could only give a ragged moan. His little cocklet was at attention, spurting weak dribbles of pale green precum onto the straw. And he could feel his stretched channel spasming around Yilk, giving way to him with every thrust. </p><p>He did like it. He had always liked this. This made him think of Summerstoke, who had fucked him firmly with a burning-hot Wrollf-pole and made Anka thank him for the roughness and the brutality. Made Anka grateful for the pain.</p><p>Wrollf cock was so big. So full. So <i>hot</i>. </p><p>The only hot thing. The best thing. Anka was being fucked half-dead by pure heat, and as the heat scraped in-out, in-out, his cunt was drooling its gratitude on it. He was moaning. There was a great hot pole in him. It was the only relief and the only torture and the only pleasure he wanted. It was fucking into every corner of his mind until he could do nothing but hurt and take it and be grateful.</p><p>His cunt shivered around Yilk's cock, and he was coming. His own little cock spurted, too. He became a shaking, quivering thing, balanced on Yilk's pick, crying out for it.</p><p>"You like it," Yilk said, driving into him even more roughly. "You like it!"</p><p>"I--I like it," Anka sobbed, agreeing. "P-please fuck me harder, <i>please</i>--"</p><p>Men spurted into his open mouth, making him gag. But his cunt kept shaking around that cock. Anka welcomed the domination, welcomed the pain. He was boneless with warm pleasure inside him, too. He was fucked and fucked, and the harder it was --</p><p>The more Anka knew himself a bitch. A whore. A slave to cock.</p><p>"I like it," he sobbed brokenly, "I--I like it."</p><p>-</p><p>When Yilk finally spent, he untied Anka. Anka was sore everywhere. He lay limp in the straw and could not even moan. He could only give tattered little breaths, crying still from the overwhelming sensations that had been forced on him.</p><p>Yilk pulling out had loosed Anka's womb. The ruined entrance had been pulled out alongside that massive cock, so that the green flesh bulged out, exposed to the cold. Yilk's meaty hand now squeezed it, making Anka hiccup. </p><p>"Who wants this cumdump?" the Wrollf called out. And the men came forward again. Not just to fuck Anka's cunt, now, but to see who could force the prolapsed womb back into him. </p><p>Anka endured this blankly. All he could think, distantly, was that the only thing that mattered was to keep his arse clenched.</p><p>Yilk, meanwhile, ambled around to Anka's face. There he sat and made the dryad lick at the hot head of his ever-hungry prick. </p><p>The big, handsome Wrollf seemed amused.</p><p>"It's not often Yilk the Icepick is impressed, bitch," he told Anka. "But green cunt would do it. You're made to be abused. I would have given you my knot if I wasn't holding out for better. And Orrak was a fool not to plow you. Of course, if Orrak's already been captured and brought here to Monrovia, he may well be dead already. So maybe he didn't get a chance to."</p><p>Anka blinked. The huge hot cockhead on his tongue was hypnotic, more hypnotic than even the energetic little fucking of the man lined up at his cunt. But he had to get past that. He struggled to pull himself off the Wrollf's prick long enough to talk. </p><p>"How--did you know--Orrak--captured?"</p><p>Yilk threw back his head and laughed. </p><p>"The dumb fuck's always writing me," he said. "I wrote him too, a few times. I've better scent than him, and I scented a treasure, pretty green-cunt. Your cousins. They've been gone for generations, sunk beneath the sea. But I scented when, seven years ago, they returned to us. But they wouldn't let Yilk come close. They attacked my ship every time I tried. So I wrote Orrak, to see if he could get in past their defenses. The stupid shit -- he managed it. He managed to get in with the naiads."</p><p>Anka stared at the Wrollf. He felt as though his life had just been knocked askew, like his whole universe had been one filthy room and someone had just drawn back the grimy curtain and revealed to him that there was more to that, that there was a street outside.</p><p>"N-naiads?" Anka asked hoarsely.</p><p>"The D'Nara of the ancient sunken city of Nara," Yilk mused. "Orrak, that worthless fuck, wrote me about them. Their treasures and wonders. Their campaigns against Monrovia. How he was getting cunt with them, while me -- I've never tasted blue naiad cunt. <i>Me</i>! And I'm worth fifty of Orrak. That wouldn't do, little bitch. So me, I took the scent off his letters and I passed it to Allerton. Allerton -- he'll torture Orrak and that little dryad bitch Orrak loves. And then he'll take the city of Nara, and--"</p><p>Here Yilk smiled a dangerous tusk-smile.</p><p>"There'll be blue cunt for all, little bitch. Blue slave cunt, to match your green slave cunt."</p><p>He took a long sniff.</p><p>"Orrak -- he's maybe gotten free," Yilk said, frowning. "But that's alright. That dryad he loves is back in the city. In the Castle. That means they have him. He'll give up the location if he's tortured right. You dryad sluts always give it up and then thank us for the pain."</p><p>-</p><p>Anka could not crawl away until Yilk finally fell asleep. And by then Anka was crawling, not walking. His womb had been forced back into him, a minor miracle he thanked the saints for. But when he forced himself upright it still felt tender and damaged in him. His arse was so loose that pulling the coins out was easy, but doing so made him feel anew their cold sting. He had pulled on his now-filthy smock and the coat, but still shivered for cold.</p><p>It was a long, long journey back to the docks. The Ordanian captain was leaning on the barrel there, joking with some of his crew. By now it was morning and Anka knew the ship would be going today. He managed to stumble to the sailors. He held out his takings.</p><p>"P-please," he said, through chattering teeth. "Please give these to Orrak, and m'babe--"</p><p>He fell. The Ordanian captain rushed to him, and so did the others. Anka could hear them shouting for assistance. He pressed the money into the man's dark hands.</p><p>"You're in no condition to travel!" the Captain said, staring down at him.</p><p>"I won't," Anka managed. "I--I have business here. B-but please take this to Orrak and Elly. Th-this is f-for th-them."</p><p>Finally the Captain took the money. Anka nodded. Then, incredibly, he found the strength to stagger back up again.</p><p>There was a dryad trapped in the castle. That Yilk, Orrak had spoken of him sometimes. The Wrollf with the most perfect scent in the world, who always scented true.</p><p>Who had scented Nara. Atlantis. The home of the <i>naiads</i>.</p><p>Allerton could not be allowed to find that place. Allerton could not be permitted to torture the new dryad trapped in the castle. Anka did not know what he could do to stop Allerton, but he had to do something. Had to find Taverner, or the Countess, and beg them, beg for their help.</p><p>Despite the protests of the sailors and the Ordanian captain, he managed to struggle off of the docks again and back into the Tangle. He forced himself to walk, walk past the Exeter Gate. Past the house of the constabulary. Down a familiar street, and then--</p><p>He blinked. He'd brought himself to the workhouse he'd been born in. This wasn't the quickest way to the center of the city, but it was the way he knew. Because once he had known nothing but this street. This ugly, forbidding building. The foreman's heavy body crushing him, fucking into him, hurting him.</p><p>The first of many. </p><p>Anka collapsed against the ugly iron gate for a moment. Just a moment. His limbs were blue again, half-buried in snow, and he felt his shoulders shake as he cried his way through the memories.</p><p>He wished he could have gone. Gotten on the ship and gone. He wished he did not have to try and help the other dryad, and the naiads, but he had to. So he wound a weak hand around the iron rail of the gate and pulled himself up.</p><p>Only to see that enormous Wrollf-shadow fall over him. That shadow and many others. Anka turned, terrified. Yilk stood in the early morning snow, next to a finely-dressed, slim man who Anka had hoped never to see again.</p><p>"I told you he came this way," Yilk rasped out. "Yilk always scents true."</p><p>"Of course he came back to the workhouse," said the Duke of Allerton. "This was his home once. Wasn't it, Anka?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:o :o :o :o</p><p>anyway, hope you liked this chapter! IDK why, but I'm fond of it. ok, I know why. Because it's a nice return to filth! and it also has that naiad reveal, which, tbh, I've been sitting on for a long time and was getting impatient over.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Clutchmate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>M e l o d r a m a, baby!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Father wanted to bash out your brains and hand your corpse off to an abattoir," said the Duke of Allerton. "But Judith -- she refused to let him. She stole you away as soon as you were born. Took to the streets and died there. We searched for her, but there was no sign or news. She was probably plying the same trade you ply. Women like that are beyond any decent person's notice."</p><p>Anka coughed. It was a gurgling cough, full of deep green blood. He had mostly been beaten, on the way to the Duke's townhouse. Nothing more. The Duke of Allerton wasn't like Summerstoke, Bardolph, Yilk, or a thousand other men who had held Anka's life in their hands. He didn't want to play with Anka. He just wanted Anka dead.</p><p>But first he seemed determined to explain, as if he had been waiting years to do so. So he'd had Anka thrown onto the carpet of his study.</p><p>Right before the dead dryad. Stuffed. With his brown skin stretched taut, and pins to keep him kneeling in fear and obeisance. This had been a handsome, living D'lani once, and now its black eyes were cold unseeing marbles and the sheen of its golden hair had faded to dull. Anka, who had thought he could not possibly have any tears left, now cried for this poor thing.</p><p>Kerrat. The Duke said his name had once been Kerrat.</p><p>"Hermia became worthless too, when she met him," the Duke said now, jerking his chin at Kerrat. He was sitting in a comfortable chair, drinking something warm. Anka was shivering before the window, shivering and bleeding onto the carpet. One of the Duke's guard was grinding a boot into his back, too, as if he needed to keep Anka in place.</p><p>"That animal," the Duke continued, voice very blank, "that slave, <i>dared</i> to lie with the daughter of the house. And then Judith helped her for some five months to conceal the result. But eventually the truth came out, as it always does. Father had Kerrat beaten to death, and promised to kill you. You see, we knew you were coming. When D'lani lie with humans, the result is always a clutch of two. One as degraded as the D'lani themselves. But also one perfect human."</p><p>Here the Duke gestured at himself, at his slender form, his cold black eyes. Anka heard himself give a wail, as if from far away. The guardsman kicked him for it.</p><p>The blooming, heaving pain had nothing on the pain of this truth. His brother, his clutchmate.</p><p>Allerton.</p><p>"Years later, father heard you’d been brought to the workhouse," he continued, as if Anka hadn't interrupted him. "But when he had it raided, you had already escaped. Later, I heard about a strange Switch whore with black hair like Judith's. You, of course. But when I raided the Tangle, you were gone. Then I got word from the constabulary. But no, no, you went and gave your holes to Summerstoke to have a rescue. Then I learned where you were whoring yourself, and even then. Even <i>then</i> I couldn't snuff you out. Summerstoke traded you to the king to curb my power. Like a joke you were determined to play on me."</p><p>Now his Lordship the Duke stood. He walked to Anka, and, without preamble, slammed the heel of his boot into the green-tipped fingers splayed on the carpet. Anka felt the bones crack, the vivid horrible pain. He was so subsumed in it that he lacked even the energy to scream properly. He just gasped there like a fish, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, struggling to breathe around the hurt.</p><p>"Do you know what my life has been like, you little <i>cunt</i>?" Allerton hissed, leaning down to whisper in one pointed ear. "Mine, and our mother's? All my childhood, Father threatened to take me away from her, to send her into exile like Judith, if I was not perfect. If I did not embrace what I am -- human! Instead of being like the animal poison that sired me. Hermia and I would be lashed before your ugly, stuffed father if we so much as showed any sign of partiality to inhumans. </p><p>"And Father was absolutely right. If not for you, if not for the randy beast that sired you, our house would have been free of perversion. Our grandmother would have died like the Duchess she was, instead of breathing her last breath in a gutter, and our mother would have known happiness."</p><p>He straightened. Anka stared up at him, fearful and horrified, and wanted for all that to beg, to beg for--</p><p>For anything. For kindness. Or for forgiveness. Anka wanted to say he was sorry for what Allerton had suffered, and the Countess too. To apologize for his own birth, his own existence. If only it would mean that his brother, his <i>tuo</i>, would not hate him like this.</p><p>Anka had wanted a family very badly once. He wanted a family still. He had always hated and feared Allerton, and yet now he would have traded anything, any small rag of pride he might have left, for just a scrap of his clutchmate's regard.</p><p>"Mother is so beaten down she actually thinks she loves you," Allerton spat out. "You, and that little worthless elf you whelped. I don't know where you've hidden him, but when I find him I'll end it for him, too."</p><p>Then he was reaching into one of his fine waistcoat pockets. He drew out a pistol. He aimed it at Anka. Anka hiccuped once, but could not seem to close his eyes.</p><p>No. Did not want to close his eyes. Allerton could kill him. Would kill him. And it would not matter. Allerton was right that Anka was just something perverse. Anka had lived nothing but perversion.</p><p>But he would not die afraid. He would die staring into the eyes of the only clutchmate he had. A clutchmate that despised him, but still a clutchmate. Anka was worthless, yes, but like every other D'lani, he had not come into this world to be alone.</p><p>"I dreamed of you," he told Allerton, his voice hoarse. "Dreamed of m-my family, my <i>brother</i>--"</p><p>He had. Until he’d had Elly, that had been a recurring dream, the dream, the hope, of having someone who might love him. Anka blinked past his tears and smiled sadly at the Duke.</p><p>Allerton reeled back as if struck. Something in his black eyes was frantic now, frantic and wild. He stared for a moment at the pistol in his hand.</p><p>"I <i>will</i> kill you," he said, but he said it as if to himself more than to Anka. "I can do it. I have killed many inhumans. But--but--"</p><p>He glanced wildly around at his guards.</p><p>"Go on!" he said, dropping the pistol on a side table. "Go on and use him! Now! It's all he's good for! I--I'll kill him when you're done. Then I'll do it. I <i>will</i>."</p><p>-</p><p>Orrak of the Snows woke on a ship that was preparing to leave, as the soldiers on the deck shouted for the heavy ropes that had lashed <i>The Pride of Ordania</i> to the dock.</p><p>Orrak was curled around the elf baby. The Elly-babe was playing quietly with a ball, making up little songs and occasionally saying, "Grr," without much explanation. It took Orrak a moment to remember that the child, bizarrely, thought he was a Wrollf.</p><p>Also, because Orrak's lot was disappointment, Anka was now apparently gone.</p><p>He took a deep sniff. He could not scent Anka on the ship. That was bad. Nor could he scent Anka on the dock, nor even in the warren of streets just beyond the dock. But he could scent a trail. Blood, and spend. Pain.</p><p>Yilk.</p><p>Orrak reared up, clutching the elf-baby.</p><p>"Ow," Elly complained, without much heat. "You've been sleeping. I want Mama."</p><p>"Me too," Orrak said.</p><p>This was a lie -- what he wanted was Kouvi. But Kouvi’s scent was just confusion. Anka's was a clear, pitiable, beaten little song. Orrak had promised to try and rescue Anka, to get him free. Now he had failed, because Orrak always failed. The ship was departing, and Anka was left somewhere in the bowels of this horrible, smelly human city, lying in his own blood.</p><p>No.</p><p>Orrak pulled the baby tight against his breast, ignoring Elly's squeak of complaint, and with his free hand slammed open the cabin door. With three bounding steps he was on the deck.</p><p>"Where is he?" he roared at the Captain.</p><p>The Ordanian took a step back, plainly frightened by the massive Wrollf.</p><p>"He wanted to make money for you, so you would have it when we reached Ordania," the man stammered out. "H-here--"</p><p>He pressed so many coins on Orrak, coins which the Wrollf could only blink at. He scooped them up with a claw and deposited them in a tattered pocket. But they weren't what he wanted. He could never grasp the things he wanted.</p><p>"Where's Mama?" Elly was demanding breathlessly, as he clung to Orrak's neck. "Where's Mama?"</p><p>"We have to leave," the Captain said, despite his clear fear. "We can't wait for him."</p><p>"We will not leave without him," Orrak decided.</p><p>Elly nodded firmly.</p><p>The Captain swallowed. Now he pressed on Orrak all the wretched slave-jewels Orrak had taken from Anka. The tight collar, the silver ring for the dryad's little stand. Orrak reeled back a bit, for he could sense the pain and humiliation coming off of those things, and wanted no part of them. Yilk -- Yilk might have been able to scent fortune in them. But Orrak could only scent ownership and cruelty.</p><p>"Keep it. Be well," Orrak decided.</p><p>Then he was striding to the rail. The ship was getting a bit of speed, just to get off the dock. Orrak got speed too. He took a running leap, clutching the little elfling--</p><p>He landed. The dock shook beneath him. He was hungry and sore, but at least not tired anymore. And though it was cold, he was built for cold. He helped Elly onto his back.</p><p>"Get under my shirt," Orrak advised him. "My bare fur is warm there."</p><p>Elly clambered into place gamely.</p><p>"Are we tracking Mama?" he asked, excitable about it.</p><p>"Yes," said Orrak. "Now be quiet. And still. There is enough confusion in the city without you adding to it, elf."</p><p>Elly obeyed at once. But his thin little arms quivered happily around Orrak's neck, as if the promise of tracking with a Wrollf was too good to be believed.</p><p>Then Orrak was loping through the streets. He passed places that stank of piss and beer and bread, and places that stank of piss and hunger. He passed marketplaces where the fish smell overwhelmed him, and a train station that made him growl at its horrible slicking machine smells. He passed dubious little parks that smelled of too much landscaping, and humans who shrieked and shouted to see his form prowling past them, but who smelled of sincere curiosity and a lick of arousal, too. He tracked and smelled. Scented himself in circles. He must have been going an hour, when--</p><p>It was not the scent of Anka. Orrak could never really scent lovely things, only things that brought him pain.</p><p>So, as he neared the part of the city where the houses were very fine, he found himself scenting another. He found himself scenting the scent that his nose told him, truly promised him, would rip even his second dryad from him.</p><p>It was another Wrollf. He had no tusks, and the trim hair on his body was a dubious cinnamon. He stood as upright and arrogant as a man, and his poison-green eyes blinked their displeasure. But he smelled like the one Anka loved. The one Anka had smelled of, not in his battered body, but in his mind and soul and heart.</p><p>"We must look again," he was saying urgently to two other Wrollves, two other sons of Lumo. And a third. She drew Orrak up short. She looked like a human woman, but no. No, he was scenting, of all things, a Wrollfmaiden.</p><p>"We've gone everywhere," she was saying sadly. "He's nowhere to be found, Robert!"</p><p>"We should find Yilk," said the oldest of the Wrollves. "I told you--"</p><p>"No Yilk, Da!" snapped the final Wrollf. "Yilk is bad news!"</p><p>"He is," Orrak said simply.</p><p>He'd figured it out in the keep. How the Royal Exploration Company had known just where Kouvi's ship would be. Yilk was the only one Orrak had told about the bolthole island off the coast of Ordania. Orrak had always been very stupid about Yilk.</p><p>The four Wrollves turned and saw him now. A Norderlander. A Wrollf large indeed, and animal indeed. Of the line unbroken.</p><p>But the one who Anka loved only said, "Eleyi?"</p><p>And he smiled, as if it was a miracle too good to be true, and held out his arms.</p><p>"Eleyi! Come here!"</p><p>Elly squirmed on Orrak's back.</p><p>"That's Mama's old master," he whispered to Orrak. "Does he know where Mama is?"</p><p>But now the Wrollfmaiden was shaking her head.</p><p>"Anka isn't with them, Robert. You can scent it. He's-- he's--"</p><p>She scrunched up her delicate brown human nose. Orrak watched realization seep into her eyes. Yes. She could smell it too, the blood and the fear and the pain.</p><p>"The scent is muddled," Orrak told her harshly. "For we are in the city. But the longer it goes on the clearer it becomes."</p><p>The Wrollfmaiden opened her eyes.</p><p>"There's a lot of blood," she said haltingly. "In Holshire Park."</p><p>"Where <i>we</i> live?" cried Anka's beloved, aghast. "But he can't be there!"</p><p>But Orrak's scent knew pain. And a Wrollfmaiden's scent was rarely wrong.</p><p>"Come," Orrak told the maiden. "Together, we have a better chance of tracking him than apart."</p><p>-</p><p>Just after Hermia tucked Edward into Kouvi’s arms to help calm the child, and bade Elsie Little to get rid of their clothes, she found Taverner in the hallway.</p><p>"Hermia," said the older man. He appeared to have been waiting a while.</p><p>Hermia had bathed by then. Changed her gown. Her hair had been pinned up in the way she liked, the way that hid the black roots. But if Taverner wanted to set his men on Edward's apartments, then they might find Elsie smuggling the bloodstained gown along a back hallway. Along with Kouvi's rags, and Edward's little ruined sailor suit.</p><p>"I thought you were in prison," Taverner said. "And yet when I went to free you, neither you nor Kouvi were there. And then my men heard a shout from the king's apartments--"</p><p>"Bardolph did so love to shout," Hermia said smoothly.</p><p>But no. Dammit. She should have said 'does.' Bardolph <i>does</i> so love to shout. </p><p>Taverner clearly caught the past tense. He stiffened.</p><p>"There were marks like an animal," he said, after a few moments. "Not what a human woman would do. Or a dryad."</p><p>Hermia's lip curled.</p><p>"Perhaps a Wrollf killed the king," she said. </p><p>Taverner gave her a quelling look.</p><p>"You forget, Hermia. I know the Wrollves. Know them well. Their claws are made to cut flesh, and the cuts are clear and swift. These claws cut with greater violence. They were made to pry into something with even greater force than the claws of a Wrollf."</p><p>Hermia stared at him serenely.</p><p>"As I have no claws, I cannot think why you're bothering me with this. I have to leave, you know. Bardolph was so terribly angry over -- over the most minor little spat we had. But clearly he ordered me free, as here I am. And now I'm headed to my townhouse, to lick my wounds a bit. There's nothing for licking your wounds like retreating home."</p><p>No. Not quite home. </p><p>Kouvi wanted his brothers. His clutchmates. The bones of Kalki in the garden, and the skin of Kerrat, her Kerrat, in the study. They would leave Edward waiting with Elsie in Hermia's own townhouse, and go to her brother's to get what was left of the other dryads.</p><p>Then, Hermia felt they all rather owed it to the dead to try and get the last of the Weds-Leaves-To-Sea back to D'laniaa.</p><p>Kouvi had said he would take Edward. Hermia would pay for their passage and see them off. She was not certain what would happen to her, but she could not leave without Anka and Eleyi. So she would stay, and try to find them.</p><p>Her family. Her child, the little baby she'd begged her mother to protect. And the little baby that baby had begged her to protect.</p><p>Inside, she raged and grieved. Yet she was certain none of this showed on her face. Hermia knew how to cultivate an icy exterior. </p><p>Despite this, Taverner only looked at her assessingly.</p><p>"Don't leave the city, Hermia," he cautioned, before turning on his heel and departing.</p><p>She wasn't planning to. She turned also, heading in to get Edward. He was hiccuping into Kouvi's shoulder.</p><p>"I--I didn't <i>mean</i> to hurt father! I didn't! But he was being so horrible to cousin Hermia, and Elly, he showed me that we're Wrollves! I always got so <i>nervous</i> about being a Wrollf, not like Elly, but I needed to help cousin Hermia!"</p><p>Hermia gathered him up, pressing kisses to his brow.</p><p>"My hero," she said. "If Wrollves were like you, even I would love them," she told him, pressing kisses all over him. "Now, dear, it is time to go."</p><p>Edward quieted as she petted and praised him and got his warm little coat on. He stared up at her and Kouvi.</p><p>"I don't understand, though, cousin Hermia," he said. "I always thought Anka was my real mother, not a Wrollf."</p><p>Kouvi smiled, and the smile was eerie and sharp in the golden light of all the Castle Voliere candelabra.</p><p>"Anka is your mother, my nephew," he crooned. "You are not a Wrollf. You are borne of the clan that Weds-Leaves-To-Sea. So you are part naiad, part D'Nara, my fat little man-sweet. That is why you can be so, so much more brutal than a Wrollf."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Does Anka’s ancestry surprise you? I’ve known about it since Allerton was raiding the Gin Tangle way back in “The Switch,” looking for a little elf whore then-fated to escape him.</p><p>Also, yes, Anka has been underestimating his own age a bit. It’s not really his fault, he just has no idea that dryad youth is meant to last fifty or so human years, and so to him he always looks and feels a bit younger than he is by a human estimate.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Weds-Leaves-to-Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Duke's guard soon discovered that Anka was loose enough to take two cocks in each hole.</p><p>They could thank Yilk for that. Some of them did. The Wrollf did not fuck Anka himself, now, but he did prowl about the halls of the townhouse, scenting something he did not immediately name. As he did that, the guard took their pleasure from Anka.</p><p>Anka, who was by now so hurt, both physically and emotionally, that he scarcely processed it. Oh, he could feel the pain in his cunt and arse. And his side, and his hand, and his jaw and his limbs. But with such a big mass of hurt, his poor mind hardly knew where to focus. He passed out once or twice, as they fucked into him. When he shuddered awake it was to discover that they'd taken a bit of charcoal from the fire and started to mark him: a slash across his stomach for each man that used him. He was slashed and slashed, each one a little burn-welt. A man finished inside him and added another, and the mingled burn and pain made Anka's eyes roll back in his head again.</p><p>Out again. </p><p>When he woke, an interminable time later, it was only to wish he could go under again. It wasn't only the scrape of two cocks in his arse, stretching him well past pleasure. It was because upon waking he could only look at the other dead dryad, and think of Allerton.</p><p>This was his father. Allerton was his brother. </p><p>And he would be back, soon enough, to kill Anka. This added torment only delayed the inevitable. </p><p>Anka closed his eyes and tried to bear it. They were marking his back now. They had used up his stomach. He gulped and gulped for air as they drove into him. </p><p>The dead dryad -- his father -- was right in front of him now. Anka could only look at him tearily. He had clearly been handsome once, golden-haired and brown-skinned. A true dryad, unlike Anka.</p><p>Anka closed his eyes. Maybe -- maybe he would see the handsome dryad when he died. He hoped he would. </p><p>Eventually he passed out again. He woke in a drift of snow, the cold wiping out what little ability to think he had left. He mewled pathetically, trying to escape it, and found that he couldn't. </p><p>They had kicked him onto some sort of terrace. Bare, dead tree branches stabbed the sky above him. The snow fell in a wind-swept, horrible fury now. Anka discovered that he was weak as a kitten.</p><p>But there was some commotion, back by the door into the townhouse.</p><p>"--found these two, scented them, Yilk did--"</p><p>"No! Charles! For Saints' sake, <i>Charles</i>--"</p><p>Anka blinked. The Countess. His friend.</p><p>No. His mother.</p><p>The snow stole his tears, froze on them on his face. He could hear more shouting now, more of the Countess pleading with Allerton. And another voice, heavily-accented.</p><p>"You ugly, shit-smelling Monrovian fucks! You walking streams of lizard piss, you rapist scum-stains--"</p><p>Then someone fell into the snow next to Anka. Anka blinked. For a moment he thought it was the dead dryad, somehow. This one had the same handsome, chiseled cheekbones and golden hair. Though he shivered in the cold, he crawled at once to Anka and wrapped strong brown arms around him.</p><p>"Anka," the dryad told him. "No, I'm sorry. That's a stupid name. Eleyi."</p><p>"El--" Anka coughed. "Th-that's my b-babe--"</p><p>"<i>No</i>," said the handsome dryad urgently, as if he thought this were the last thing he might say, and indeed it was so cold now for both of them that it might be, "You were meant to be Eleyi. Kerrat wanted to name you that, Anka. He loved you, even if he never got to meet you."</p><p>He broke off, looked up. The Countess' screams were growing louder. The handsome dryad pulled Anka back, across the painful snow, until they were at the edge of the terrace. He propped them both against the ledge there and cradled Anka, tucking him into his arms as best he could. </p><p>Anka could have cried at the kindness, if he'd had any tears left.</p><p>"I'm sorry we had to meet like this," said the handsome dryad, through chattering teeth. "I really am. This is no way to greet family."</p><p>"Family?" Anka said weakly.</p><p>"I'm your uncle. Kouvi. And if we get through this, Anka, remind me to ask you what you did with my Orrak."</p><p>But the cold was biting away Anka's ability to do more than blink at this, for all the brief stupid joy it gave him. For all his cheerful talk, Kouvi didn't seem convinced they would make it through this freezing storm. He was trying to cover Anka up with his whole body now, plainly trying to get Anka warm, but Anka suspected that all this was doing was making Kouvi himself freeze faster.</p><p>And now the door to the interior slammed open again. Yilk dragged a struggling Countess out to the terrace by the hair. Allerton followed, his slim white form a hazy vision in the snow. Then came a guardsman, holding the pistol from before.</p><p>"End it," Allerton ordered him, as the Countess shrieked out what sounded like wild, formless grief.</p><p>The guardsman cocked the pistol. Kouvi turned Anka's head, so that Anka wasn't looking at it. So that Anka was looking behind them, at the bare brown garden.</p><p>Anka took in a sharp breath.</p><p>There was a little, familiar form in the trees. In the highest branches. A leaping form, skittering along the arms of oaks and jumping to the elms. Flying about excitably, all to get closer to Anka.</p><p>"Mama!" Anka heard Elly call through the wind. </p><p>His heart stopped for a moment in his chest. He was so, so weak. But Elly couldn't come here, couldn't land on this terrace and see him die. Anka wouldn't allow Elly to see that. </p><p>He didn't know where he found the strength to shove off of Kouvi, but he found it. He found it and then he was hauling himself up on the terrace railing while Allerton and the guard shouted. Anka swayed for a moment, reached out his arms to his child.</p><p>He fell. He ought to have fallen like a stone. But his hands moved nearly of their own accord and latched onto a great gnarled yew branch just below the terrace. He gasped, shocked, as his green-tipped fingers gave way to sharp, pincer-like claws. Even though one of his hands burned with pain, for Allerton had broken some of the bones, both this and his stronger hand now had sharp hooks that helped him to hold on the way Elly was doing.</p><p>Elly.</p><p>Anka struggled to climb up, to go get him. He kept hooking his claws into the bark, despite the pain. When he reached a bend in the yew, he managed to jump weakly to another branch. There were more shouts and now some gunshots on the terrace, and Anka threw a frightened glance over his shoulder to see what had happened to Kouvi. He caught a glimpse of the other dryad wrestling with a guard. Allerton scrambling away from, of all people, Orrak. A slender, dark-haired woman -- Anka thought that she might be Summerstoke's <i>sister</i> -- leveling a gun at Yilk and saying, "Unhand the lady, or I'll shoot."</p><p>Yilk roared something into the wind that Anka could not make out.</p><p>"Yes, but I'm not a son of Lumo," was the oddly clear reply. </p><p>Then there was another cracking gunshot, and Yilk went down like a stone. But now more guards poured onto the terrace, with more guns. Anka whipped his head about, trying to locate Elly. They might try to shoot Elly.</p><p>But his child was still leaping and balancing on branches, tossing himself in the air with abandon and always, always finding a friendly branch to latch onto. Anka could hear his happy laughter. To Elly this was a game. </p><p>He swallowed hard. He closed his own eyes and pushed himself off of the yew, in the direction of Elly.</p><p>It wasn't so hard to fly. He had thought it would be hard. But it was instinct. Even his weak body seemed to know where the next branch was, and to lock him into it with the claws so he wouldn't fall. Soon he reached an elm, and Elly reached the elm at the same time. The delighted child darted along it, using the little claws in his feet, and when he reached Anka he threw his arms around his mother. </p><p>"Mama!" he said. "I <i>told</i> you I was a Wrollf!"</p><p>Anka clung to him. Elly's dark hair was all wet and matted with snow, and the little boy's teeth were chattering, but he was still in the warm woolens Anka had put on him in the palace. Anka, however, was naked and so lightheaded he thought he might plummet if he wasn't careful. He swayed a bit, even. But something in him was made to be in the trees. His balance held. </p><p>He looked back towards the terrace again. Shots were still ringing out. And now -- now he could make out a finely-dressed figure reaching the railing.</p><p>Allerton. Cocking the pistol right at them again.</p><p>"Anka!" Anka heard, from below. A wild shout, trying to warn him. Anka glanced down and saw Summerstoke in the snow below their tree, his perfect cinnamon hair mussed and fright in his poison-green eyes. </p><p>"Anka!" the Earl cried. "Anka, come down! It's alright! Taverner is coming with his men, Anka! This will be over soon!"</p><p>But Allerton was shouting Anka's name too. The Duke fired a shot that went wide, but was enough to make Anka start with fright. Then Allerton got up on the railing, clearly gauging the distance from there to the yew branch. His eyes narrowed.</p><p>Two more shots. But Anka was dragging himself and his child behind a snarl of branches now, going deeper into what little cover he could get from the trees. He saw Allerton through the haze of snow. The Duke cocked his pistol again, leapt, and--</p><p>Anka was a dryad. He could fly. </p><p>Allerton was a human. He could not.</p><p>In the terrible moments that followed, despite everything, something in Anka broke a bit. Broke enough that he could hardly tell how he was climbing down, getting Elly and himself down to the ground. When they were there, he fell forward, clumsy again. Summerstoke caught him in an embrace.</p><p>"M-my clutchmate," Anka said, despite Elly's wriggling and the cold that was fast-consuming him. "I have to go to him. I have to--"</p><p>"Shhhh," said Summerstoke. He wrapped his heavy coat around Anka. Anka struggled weakly to push him off nevertheless. He tried to blink past the whirl of white. There--there just below the terrace--</p><p>The snow was going red around the crumpled body.</p><p>Anka closed his eyes. He didn't want to see it. He felt his freezing body give a shudder in Summerstoke's firm grip and then, once more, he was out like a light.</p><p>-</p><p>He must have slept for at least a week, because when he woke he was much less sore than he ought to be.</p><p>Still sore, though. And when he ran his hands over the throbbing pain of his stomach, he could feel the tender skin of the burns still there. </p><p>"Mama," Elly complained, startled from his own sleep by the movement. He burrowed deeper into Anka's side. </p><p>Anka's breath hitched. Then he kissed Elly's head, his little pointed ears. Kissed and kissed and kissed them, pulling the child in close.</p><p>"Anka?" came a nervous, serious little voice. "Anka, can I have a kiss?"</p><p>Anka stared at the child tucked into his other side. The fat little arms, the solemn black eyes. The mop of fair hair. Edward. His Edward. </p><p>With a cry, Anka scooped him up too. Edward bore the kisses better than Elly, who was by now rubbing at his eyes, annoyed at being woken. </p><p>"My boys," Anka found himself sobbing. "My boys."</p><p>They were in a wide featherbed in an airy, pretty room all hung with tulip wallpaper. A fire roared in the fireplace, and they were piled with coverlets to keep them warm. And sunshine was streaming through a big window by the bed, enough sunshine to make Anka blink with gratitude. Not in Castle Voliere, then. Castle Voliere was dank and cold and never seemed to have enough real sunshine -- only candelabra. </p><p>And now a figure was stirring in the chair by the window. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long long legs. Before, he'd had hair snarling down to his palms, but now his arms were neat and hairless. </p><p>Summerstoke opened his beautiful eyes.</p><p>"Anka?" he said, as if he could scarcely believe it. "Anka!"</p><p>He shot up so fast Anka could only blink at it. He was leaning over the bed, passing a hand over the side of Anka's face, running fingers through Anka's hair.</p><p>"Oh, thank the Saints," Summerstoke said. </p><p>He was crying. Really crying. Anka was stupefied for a moment -- he'd never known the Earl to cry like this. </p><p>"I'll get the doctor," Summerstoke said hoarsely. "You stay here. I'll get the doctor." </p><p>Then he was striding from the room. In moments he returned, leading a black-skinned, handsome Ordanian man, one Anka hadn't seen in years. Not since Doctor Nenge had delivered his first clutch.</p><p>He had to surrender his children, now, while the doctor checked him. They sat with Summerstoke on a loveseat by the window, as if Summerstoke were the sort to kindly watch over children. But he did. He let Elly snuggle into his arms -- <i>warm, he's always so warm</i>, Anka thought faintly -- and distractedly play with a rag doll, and attempted to get Edward into conversation.</p><p>Edward did not cooperate at this. Summerstoke appeared to have no real gift for understanding what children would want to talk about (horses, Lord Taverner), and the little boy was clearly anxious about Anka.</p><p>Anka tried to give him a reassuring smile.</p><p>It was difficult, though. Doctor Nenge checked first Anka's battered throat, then his poor ruined hand. He slid brisk, professional hands under Anka's nightshirt to confirm that the bruises and welts on on Anka's breasts were not infected, and then firmly applied new salve to the burns on Anka's stomach and back. </p><p>Then he directed Anka to lie with his legs spread, a familiar order. Anka obeyed it on instinct.</p><p>The doctor pulled up the nightshirt a bit, exposing the mound of Anka's cunt. Doctor Nenge was entirely professional, but the moment one of his brisk fingers began to probe, Anka was left squirming. The doctor's touch was waking him to just how much of his body had been beaten, abused, and degraded. But now, down <i>there</i>, it was doing other things to Anka, too. Things Anka could not help. He'd been trained -- trained by Summerstoke himself -- to go wet at a kind touch. He'd done this the first time he'd met the doctor, too, and it had been just as humiliating then.</p><p>Summerstoke turned Edward's face away with a hand now. Anka discovered that he was pathetically grateful for that.</p><p>"It's alright, Anka," Doctor Nenge was saying gently. He was taking more of that warm, tingly salve that soothed the pain everywhere else, and deftly working it into the embarrassed dryad. Anka wanted to thank him for it, for this touch that finally -- <i>finally</i> -- eased the soreness of his cunt, but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he would start moaning.</p><p>"You gave the Earl and little Eleyi a great scare," Doctor Nenge continued, politely ignoring Anka lying there shuddering like a wanton trollop. "They sent someone straight to my practice. When I arrived here, you were so cold. We drew you a hot bath, the hottest we could. And you have been kept warm since then. No one has touched you or despoiled you. No one has done anything but keep you warm and say kind things to you. We all want you to recover."</p><p>Anka blinked. He brought up a hand to his eyes and wiped at the wet that was forming there now. It sounded lovely and unreal, what the doctor was saying.</p><p>"There. That is the front. Will you turn for me, Anka, so that I can get the back? Very good, like that. It is not your fault, Anka. Just a little more, and when I am done you will feel better."</p><p>The hot tingly salve was already helping, and when it went into his back hole he felt such a good mild stretch that he did moan. He had to muffle it in the pillows. Soft, soft pillows, and now a soft nightshirt the doctor brought down again, and then a soft, heavy coverlet that the doctor was drawing over him. Anka was so warm and had been rubbed so well that he snuck a hand down to his nub and jerked his hips once, twice against his fingers. With no thought to it, just instinct. Until he went slack and the need in him burst.</p><p>He was sobbing not thirty seconds later. When he realized what he'd just done. He was dirty. He was so dirty. He didn't deserve this kindness, didn't deserve to have his children here. He was filthy and degraded, coming like this in front of them and the Doctor.</p><p>"Anka--" he heard Doctor Nenge say sadly.</p><p>But now a heavy body was on the bed next to him, and Summerstoke's arms were around him. He lifted Anka up, encircling him with more warmth. He tucked Anka's head into one of his shoulders. He was firm and hot and he let Anka cry into him, his hands rubbing Anka's back. Anka could see the children over his shoulder and tried desperately to stop crying, to dredge up a smile for them, but he couldn't stop. </p><p>He wasn't used to being held, or touched without any attempt to take something from him. He wasn't used to not hurting. He wasn't used to this kind shoulder, or the hand that was rubbing circles of pleasant warmth on him, without trying also to abuse him. He only knew one way to respond to any of that -- the same way he responded to anything -- and that was with filth and need and an unseemly degree of wet.</p><p>He forced himself not to fuck into Summerstoke's crotch the way his body wanted to. He was not an animal. He would not be an animal in front of his children, not if he had a choice about it. </p><p>"Anka, it's not your fault," Summerstoke was saying. The man who'd made Anka this way, who Anka loved despite that. "It's not your fault, Anka. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."</p><p>-</p><p>He was kept warm, and once the sheets were changed he was even allowed to hold his children again. He was brought food when he was hungry, and permitted to rest when he was tired. When he hurt, the doctor came punctually and taught him how to soothe it, with more of the hot pleasant salve. </p><p>No one, not even Summerstoke, ordered him to his knees or bent him over a table to stick a cock in him. In the warm tulip-patterned room, that was out of the question. The most that happened here was that, periodically, someone came with an ewer and offered it to him so he could let his milk out and ease the constant heaviness in his breasts. That surprised him so much that the first time it happened, he simply stared blankly at the maid who'd offered for perhaps a full five minutes.</p><p>People did visit him to say kind things. More people than the ewer maid. A very kind old Wrollf with a potbelly came, and since Anka was not strong enough to leave his bed the Wrollf obligingly entertained the children, making Elly more rag dolls and letting Edward ride about on his back. Orrak, when he appeared, offered the same Wrollf-back rides, prompting a similar degree of joy.</p><p>"I scent that we will never be mated," he told Anka glumly, when the children had worn themselves out with endless play and were sleeping in a small pile on the carpet before the fire. Now Orrak hunched by the bed and patted Anka's hand awkwardly. "I have a mate, and you your own <i>avva</i>. But it's for the best. Sometimes the things that bring me pain are also things that, all the same, bring me great pleasure. You are not for me and I am not for you. So let us look on the bright side, regarding our non-union."</p><p>Orrak's mate was alive. It was Kouvi, handsome Kouvi. Anka's uncle. Kouvi came to speak to Anka nearly every day. Anka would close his eyes for a nap -- for such an exhaustion came on him these days that he seemed always to need to nap -- and when he opened them Kouvi would be sitting cross-legged on the loveseat, patiently waiting.</p><p>"Anka-Eleyi," he would say every time, in his heavy D'lani accent. "My little lost-bird. Child of my clutch. How are you today? You will recover, Kerrat-<i>keli</i>, sweet ink-black sea-bird. I recovered when it was done to me. You are strong, and will recover."</p><p>Anka did not feel strong. But he was in awe of Kouvi and never wanted to gainsay him. He wanted only to listen to him, to soak up some of his uncle's certainty and easy power. Kouvi was a mature dryad, tall and broad and commanding. So bold and fierce that anyone would be frightened to challenge any of his pronouncements.</p><p>Kouvi was a pirate captain. He was Kouvi Ul'la-Yenat-Morovia, Kouvi Who-Kills-Monrovians, under the command of Ril'karrat From-The-Deeps, the leader of the Naiads.</p><p>"Our cousins the D'nara live much longer than even we do," he told Anka. "And become tired, and so they sink their islands, the lands of Nara, beneath the sea for hundreds of years at a time. They were slumbering when the Monrovians came. We could not call on them. But they always wake and return to us, and now they have done so. Because D'laniaa is gone, and so many dead, we will never be D'laniaa again. Not as we were. But Ril'karrat grieved so for us that he pledged to recover what he could. In gratitude, those who he has armed and aided have asked that our lands be mingled with his. D'laniaa, once it is freed, will cease to be. Nara will cease to be. Instead we will be D'laniara. </p><p>"That, incidentally, is our family's clutch name. Yours and mine. Weds-Leaves-to-Sea. The children of Ril'karrat and his Eleyi, who welcomed him as a lover."</p><p>They were of a line that blended dryad and naiad. That was why Anka and Elly had those claws, why even extreme cold had not killed Anka, and why Anka had such strange black eyes. Fathomless. According to Kouvi, all naiads had eyes like that, instead of the blue-sky eyes of the dryads.</p><p>"You look very like them, pretty clutchling. They will be pleased to meet you, when this long winter is over and I am finally able to safely bring you back to our new D'laniaa."</p><p>Kouvi was firm and unbending in this: Anka could not stay in Monrovia. Anka did not belong among humans, for all that Anka was half-human. For the D'lani there were no halves. D'lani that mingled with the beings outside the islands always produced at least one child that was deemed entirely D'lani.</p><p>And yet the thought of leaving brought Anka up short. He would wake in the night frightened over it. He had always been Monrovian. He knew nothing else. To try to be a proper dryad seemed obscene for something like him, something that was nowhere near as beautiful and untainted and wild as a true D'lani. Anka was a tamed Monrovian whore. If he tried to be a real dryad, he had the unshakable conviction that he would fail.</p><p>And -- there was Edward. And Summerstoke. And the Countess, his friend. His mother.</p><p>She, too, came nearly every day. Though at first she seemed as afraid of Anka as he was of her. Afraid of disappointing each other. Of having disappointed each other.</p><p>"I let unspeakable things happen to you," she bit out once, wiping at her eyes. "I watched them happen. I did not protect you. Anka, my Anka--"</p><p>He cut her off. He really could not seem to make his legs work when he got out of bed. He was so cold-weak they were like jelly. But he managed to stumble just far enough to fall on her and wrap his arms around her. He would perhaps never know if, when he'd been dreaming of the beautiful dark-haired lady, it had been her or Judith. Judith who had rescued him and run off with him. But this was the woman before him now, this was the mother he had. The mother who had mothered his own children whenever he couldn't. Anka was grateful for that. He wanted to help her and comfort her, never let her go.</p><p>But the Countess did not want that for him.</p><p>"You must go," she would tell him, sobbing but agreeing with Kouvi. "You won't be <i>safe</i> here, not you or Eleyi. You belong somewhere where you won't be raped every day, Anka."</p><p>He knew that. He knew that, and still he was afraid. He was afraid to leave this place, to go with Kouvi and Orrak to spread the ashes of his father and his lost uncle Kalki on the D'lani seas. He wanted it, and yet he found himself clinging to anything that might give him reason to stay.</p><p>"Bardolph is dead?" he asked Taverner, when that old gentleman first came to see him. He would come punctually every week after that, but the first time -- the first time was the time he laid out everything that was happening in this, a new Monrovia.</p><p>"Dead," Taverner confirmed. His blue eyes went very shrewd. "It was a coup by Allerton and his castle guard. They used a renegade Wrollf named Yilk the Icepick to attack Bardolph, carve him up. Thankfully, Yilk's brave brother and Kouvi alerted me to the danger. My own men then had to descend on the Allerton townhouse to quell the coup. Before the house burned down and the fire killed Allerton and his men, of course."</p><p>Orrak had killed most of them, and Kouvi had burned the house, and Yilk had been occupied with Anka himself on the night the king died. Anka knew that. And he knew there was something they were not telling him. Something that made his Edward, his nervous little Edward, ball up his fists and cling to Anka at night when Elly had already gone fast asleep. </p><p>"Father was bad," Edward would whisper. "He was bad to you and Elly, Anka. I won't ever be that bad, I promise. I'll be a better king than him."</p><p>And that was all Anka would get out of the child, no matter how he tried to coax or pry.</p><p>As for Taverner, who now took part in schooling the young king on the boundaries of his new empire, he was tight-lipped when Anka raised Edward's strange new anxieties. As tight-lipped as the Countess was. </p><p>"Hermia is right," was all Taverner would say. "You must go to D'laniaa and trust us to care for Edward. He will be better served having you there in any case. If we are to make peace with this new D'laniaa and pull the last of the REC out of the archipelago with no more bloodshed, returning Ril'karrat's descendants to him will be critical."</p><p>And so it seemed that everyone was determined to have him go. Leave his mother, leave his child, leave his nation. They all made the choice for Anka.</p><p>All except for Summerstoke. He never said a word about it. Even though he was Anka's most constant visitor. He was there if Anka cried out in his sleep, or if Anka tried to walk and fell over with a muffled curse. He was there when Edward tantrumed because he had not slept as he should, and needed someone to rock him; and when a sleepy Elly wandered down to the rear garden, and needed someone to bring him up to his mother. He was the one who ordered the maids to bring Anka that ewer, and the one who paid Doctor Nenge's bill. He was the one who made sure Anka's meals were full of lovely light green things, grasses and salads and the little strawberries Anka loved best, and that Anka's sheets and coverlets were always clean. This was his house, and it was his stamp on everything. </p><p>Even if his lordship was -- subdued. That was the only way Anka could think to put it. Summerstoke had always been vigorous, powerful. Perfect tousled hair and electric venom-colored eyes. He still was that. Whenever he was near, his presence would loose all that desperate want in Anka. His lordship's voice as he read to the boys, his lordship's hand on Anka's hand to soothe Anka after a nightmare. All of it left Anka squirming. Not just his cunt would want Summerstoke, but his little dryad cock would go hard now, too. His whole body thrummed to the sight and sound and smell of his lordship. </p><p>His Master.</p><p>But Summerstoke never gave any orders now. Never touched Anka but to smooth back his hair, pat his hand when he was crying at night, or at times help him to the lavatory. He did not embrace Anka again after that time Anka disgraced himself before Doctor Nenge, not even once. Not even though Anka wanted that more than anything. No, Summerstoke was impersonal and helpful, that was all. </p><p>As if he'd had Anka so many times that now, now there was nothing a used slut like Anka could offer him.</p><p>Edward and Eleyi usually slept with their mother, for the doctor had said Anka would benefit from that comfort. But sometimes, on an odd night, the boys would fall asleep in the parlor on top of the great cozy belly of Urk, who was too kindhearted to move them. Or the Countess would stay the night, and they would curl up in her guest room instead of Anka's. </p><p>On those nights, Anka would let himself think of Summerstoke. He would slide fingers into his healing cunt and fuck in-out, ruining it himself, reckless and hungry for it. Would tug at his little cock, too. It was such a torment during the day to hold off, with the Earl right there. A torment to know Summerstoke didn't want him anymore. But Anka wanted him. Anka would go dry-mouthed with want, thinking of Summerstoke's cock in him. Once, it had been Summerstoke and Yilk, but the cruelty the Norderlander had done Anka had wiped out any real desire Anka had to think of him. And that had been different. Carnal. Whorish even for a whore.</p><p>The way Anka thought of Summerstoke was not like that. It was softer, needier. It was a sort of golden, melancholic want, that meant that when he spurted into the sheets he was crying a bit, not just with shame but also with plain sadness.</p><p>Summerstoke had been cruel, but Anka had forgiven him. Forgiven him over and over and over. Because sometimes the Earl had smiled at him, or laughed as though Anka had pleasantly surprised him. Or rocked into Anka softly, instead of forcefully. Or helped Anka get his cunt-bells in. There was more to Summerstoke than his cruelty. His kindness -- that, too, was a real part of him. </p><p>"Do you think I should go to D'laniaa?" Anka dared to ask him once, on a day when the boys were running madcap down the hallways and he was perched on the loveseat, trying and failing to read a book Taverner had given him on Ordanian-D'lani trade routes.</p><p>Summerstoke had been, of all things, kneeling. Kneeling on the carpet, fixedly arranging Edward's horses in a line. Anka had not been sure <i>why</i> -- Edward could certainly do that himself.</p><p>"I can't make that decision for you, Anka," was all the Earl told him, without so much as looking up. "That's your choice."</p><p>That was not what Anka wanted to hear. For one wild moment, Anka had wanted to be ordered to stay. </p><p>But now, now when he wanted an order from his Master, wanted an order that would mean Summerstoke wanted <i>him</i> --</p><p>Summerstoke refused to give it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In my head, this is the companion to yesterday’s chapter in terms of laying bare Anka’s history, so it’s going up swiftly after yesterday’s. Also, look! People are finally nice to Anka!!! </p><p>I thought that would never happen, lmao.</p><p>A few scattered notes:<br/>1. Elly is very disappointed not to be a Wrollf. Edward is nervously happy to be a naiad/dryad.<br/>2. Hermia def tried to push Anka to change his own name to Eleyi back when she was helping him without telling him who she was. Anka was like, “this regal name is perfect for my child. I, however, will continue to be fencepost.”<br/>3. Yes, Anka is descended from ~elf royalty. my abused boypussy elf is the specialest boy in the world and there are no silly tropes I don’t love, lmao.<br/>4. Another good silly trope: villain falls to his death and then we don’t have to worry about him ever again.<br/>5. I haven’t forgotten about the Summersiblings. Geraldine and Jem, incidentally, join a long line of side characters with complex inner lives that are completely irrelevant to the fic and which thus the reader may never learn about. Geri is, like Anka, a special snowflake! But that will have to be a detail for a future story, lmao. This story is packed enough as it is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That was the calmest, warmest winter Anka had ever had in his life. And yet, as the snows fell with more fervor, as Wintermass loomed and then fell away, he found himself becoming difficult.</p><p>He never had been, before. He was by nature pathetically submissive, a fact that had always been shamefully clear to him. For most of his life, he'd acquiesced to things that a prouder, more noble sort would have flatly refused. He'd never had the luxury to be proud or noble. So he wasn't. He was beaten and dirty instead.</p><p>But now, now he found himself irritable over small things. The first time he was well enough to stagger downstairs and eat at the table with the rest of the household -- with Summerstoke, Urk, the children, Kouvi, and Orrak -- he discovered that Elly's insistence on tapping his fork against his glass to make a little tune left him out of sorts.</p><p>"Stop that," Anka snapped. And Anka <i>never</i> snapped at Elly.</p><p>But it wasn't only Elly. Kouvi drawing the curtains in the parlor left Anka annoyed, because he wanted sunshine. Urk and Orrak encouraging the children to run about when Anka wanted to read left Anka frustrated, because he wished only for a second of calm. </p><p>Even Summerstoke directing the maids to take Anka's morning tea tray and replace it with an afternoon tray -- even that would upset Anka.</p><p>"I didn't even finish the first one!" he would say, frustrated, after limping to the Earl's study to confront him. "And you -- you are <i>always</i> telling them to come in and interrupt me, to not give me a minute's peace to myself! A minute to think!"</p><p>The truth was, it was not good for him to have a minute. If the children weren't about, if Summerstoke wasn't prompting him with questions about his books or Kouvi wasn't spinning him stories of D'laniaa, Anka became despondent and frightened. He had no pricks to serve, no orders to obey, and no hunger or want, and now his days were very long and he was not sure what to do with himself.</p><p>But even so. Small things would seem to go wrong, and some bone-deep instinct in him would leave him furious and convinced that it was deliberate. Kouvi <i>meant</i> him not to have sunshine, and the boys <i>meant</i> him not to have quiet peace. Everyone was ranged against him, because that was how life was supposed to work. No one was supposed to be kind.</p><p>The worst thing, therefore, was that everyone was. No one held these little rages against him, not even the children, who deserved them least of all. Sometimes Anka would scream himself hoarse over something small, and all that would happen was that Urk would whisk the boys off to some other corner of the big townhouse and Kouvi would settle himself cross-legged on the floor before Anka and nod along, as if Anka were being perfectly reasonable when even Anka knew he wasn't.</p><p>After one particularly awful rage, he ended up sobbing. </p><p>"I'm sorry," he told Kouvi. Told Summerstoke, too, for Summerstoke was standing there impassive in the doorway. "I'm so, so sorry!"</p><p>Kouvi stood gracefully and pulled Anka into an embrace. His strong brown hands patted Anka's hair.</p><p>"You will be angry for a long time, Anka-Eleyi. This is how it is. I can't tell you when it will stop. It hasn't stopped for me. But rage is natural, given what you've suffered. I can tell you that. And you're not alone in it. You have me."</p><p>Still, Anka hated his swarming anger. He hated what it made him. After Wintermass he was well enough that he didn't strictly need the children's body heat or comfort near him. Elly and Edward spent half of their nights, then, in the great pale blue nursery Summerstoke had ordered set up for them. So on those nights Anka punished himself for his rage. Clawed his green nails down the side of his abdomen. Tugged and tugged his cock so many times that spending became painful, and then tugged again just to feel the pain. He would finger-fuck himself so forcefully that Doctor Nenge grew concerned he wasn't healing as fast as he should, that his cunt was still too swollen and sore despite regular application of the healing salve.</p><p>He was even rough getting his milk out, once the ewer maid was gone. His nipples had always been sensitive. He'd thought of them most days as little points of pain, because they were that, and had reconciled himself to accepting that pain. Accepting the heavy discomfort in his chest. But he was no longer being forced to eat anything that kept him in milk, and Doctor Nenge predicted that soon he would dry up. He ought to have wished for that, but some perverse part of him felt it was not right. So he was brutal and cruel to himself. Pinched and dug his nails in. Sometimes there was green blood in the ewer when he was done, and his cunt was wet with the odd pleasure of controlling his own pain. Ensuring that he received it. </p><p>He ought to have some pain. It was confusing not to have it. </p><p>But with the milking he went too far. One day, about a month after Wintermass, a perfectly lovely day when the Countess was visiting and Taverner was visiting, and everyone was laughing over a story the old general was recounting for them in the fern-bedecked back parlor, the ewer maid went and told Summerstoke about the blood.</p><p>Anka knew the moment he knew. She came in, whispered something in Summerstoke's ear, and something in the cruel curve of his handsome mouth changed. His eyes flicked to Anka, more troubled than Anka had ever seen him.</p><p>"Anka?" he said. "May I speak to you a moment in the hall?"</p><p>Anka was so disobedient now, he actually shook his head. He never would have done that before. Not to Summerstoke, not to Bardolph, not to the ten thousand other men who had ordered him about. He had always, always been meek and obedient.</p><p>But the Countess loved him, and Kouvi cared for the child of his clutchmate. The children were Anka’s children, and liked him better than Summerstoke, and Orrak had often told Anka he was still sworn to protect him. Even Taverner would defend him against Summerstoke at the drop of a hat. Summerstoke had none of the power, for once. Anka had it. Anka had it and greedily reveled in it.</p><p>"Anka," Summerstoke said.</p><p>Anka shook his head again. By now everyone was staring at them. </p><p>"I should very much like to speak to you privately about something," Summerstoke said, even-keeled, plainly a man who was trying very hard to conceal his own frustration.</p><p>"Is that an order, my lord?" Anka dared. </p><p>Taverner, Orrak, Kouvi, <i>and</i> the Countess all stiffened. All shot mistrustful, unhappy looks at the Earl.</p><p>"...no," Summerstoke said, after a moment.</p><p>And for an instant, just an instant, Anka felt heady and strong, and his rage was alright. His rage was lovely. Summerstoke wanted something, and Anka had thwarted him. Anka, who was nothing. Who was still in his heart Summerstoke's slave. </p><p>Who now didn't need Summerstoke to hurt him, because he was doing it perfectly well to himself.</p><p>Summerstoke was waiting for him in his room that night. Anka came in from his bath and saw the Earl on the loveseat. Summerstoke was showing his frustration on his face now, and Anka reveled in that, too. It wasn't impassive, impartial friendliness. It wasn't the proof that Summerstoke cared nothing for him. It was an emotion, that frustration was, and even if it wasn't love Anka would take it.</p><p>"If I ask you to please show me," Summerstoke bit out, "will you insist on being a brat again? You were a brat today, Anka. I have not harmed you, not in months. And I am not planning to harm you now. But I want to see what you've been apparently doing to yourself."</p><p>Anka clutched his warm woolen bathrobe around himself, just because doing so made him feel, briefly, like for once his body was his wholly, like whatever he did to it it was <i>his</i> now.</p><p>"You can't stop me," he told Summerstoke.</p><p>"Oh, I think I bloody well <i>can</i>," the Earl snarled. He jumped up, so tall and frightening, as if he were quite ready to shake Anka. Anka blinked at this. It was sudden and startling, and he always told himself that he didn't like the Summerstoke that had hurt him. But he liked it a little, clearly. His cunt was slicking up at it.</p><p>But Summerstoke only held up his hands. Breathed out.</p><p>"Forgive me," he said. "Anka. Anka, please show me. Please let me see."</p><p>That was strange. So strange, to have Summerstoke ask him for something so nicely. He didn't need to do that -- he <i>could</i> order, he had in the past. And Anka had always given in to him. To have him be so polite about Anka stripping was new and odd.</p><p>But since he asked so nicely, Anka undid his robe. He let it drop to the floor. Then he found that he had to self-consciously rub a few fingers through his own loose black hair, before he could dare to look at Summerstoke.</p><p>He wanted Summerstoke to <i>want</i> him, like Summerstoke had in the past. He wanted to find hungry command in those yellow-green eyes. But Summerstoke only looked stricken.</p><p>"Anka," he said. He came forward to trail his long fingers over the scratches on Anka's side. Over the ruined bright green nipples. He even ghosted over Anka's puffy cunt, as swollen and green and violated as the young dryad could get it. </p><p>His voice wasn't wanting. It was only horrified.</p><p>"Anka, why?"</p><p>Something in Anka snapped.</p><p>"Why?" he breathed out. "How dare you ask me that? How dare you? You taught me to like being like this! Anka, with his fucked-green cunt!"</p><p>He was hitting Summerstoke now, hitting him indiscriminately, for all that Summerstoke was an Earl and so much larger and Anka was just a weak, stupid little whore. </p><p>"You <i>wanted</i> me like this!" he was shrieking now. Summerstoke had a hand on his hand, trying to stop him, so Anka kicked him too. "You were never kind unless you gave me pain, because you wanted me to <i>like</i> pain! You wanted me to hurt myself for you! To beg you to hurt me! And now you don't like it? This is what you wanted!"</p><p>The Earl's eyes were wet. Anka hated that, but he couldn't seem to stop.</p><p>"You made me beg you to whip me!" he spat. "You made me lick your boots and beg to clean your cock. You made me ask you to <i>piss</i> on me. And I wanted you to, I <i>wanted</i> you to treat me like a bitch--"</p><p>Now he was crying, because he always was. He was so pathetic, Anka, that with him it always ended with crying.</p><p>"And I still want you to," he sobbed out. The Earl was pinning his arms to his sides now, but pulling him close, too. The first time he'd pulled Anka close in a month and a half. </p><p>"I still want you to treat me like that," Anka said, between hiccups and anger and snot getting in the way, snot tracking onto the Earl's fine white shirt. "I-- I still want it!"</p><p>"Anka," Summerstoke said again. Just that. Just that broken word, the name he'd given to a worthless little Switch he'd fucked stupid and brought home to make his slave. "Anka."</p><p>He picked Anka up like the dryad weighed nothing. Anka was glad at that. He wrapped his arms around Summerstoke's neck, breathing out hard. Just -- just let Summerstoke keep holding him. Perhaps Anka was enraged at the Earl, but he needed to be held by him, too.</p><p>Summerstoke brought him to the bed. He laid Anka down gently, very gently. Then he climbed in, over Anka. That was good, too. Anka wanted the Earl with him. On him. In him. He couldn't really tell anymore, but he would take just about anything, really.</p><p>"Anka," Summerstoke said again, when his long, well-formed body was blanketing Anka's ruined one. His green eyes were locked on Anka's. He bent his head.</p><p>He kissed Anka. Slow. Commanding. Tilted Anka's chin up and took his breath, wet and powerful. His big muscled thigh slid in between Anka's thin legs, and the heat off his body blanketed Anka. Anka felt small and warm and <i>owned</i>, and now his stupid ever-present tears were tears of gratitude.</p><p>One of Summerstoke's hands found his breasts and massaged. Played with a nipple, got it nice and stiff, before moving onto the other. Anka had to keen into his mouth, for his tits were pleasure-points as well as pain-points. And now Summerstoke was stroking the sore things so nicely.</p><p>He broke off from kissing Anka to put his head to one, and give such a hungry <i>suck</i>. </p><p>Anka's back arched up off the bed. He was cock-hard and cunny-wet and so, so ready to be fucked by this man. And he knew he would have to wait until Summerstoke got his fill. Until he tasted Anka's milk and was done kneading Anka's sore tits so nicely. Until Summerstoke wanted to fuck him. Until then, Anka would pant and squirm and sate his Master's thirst, as he should. </p><p>And come. He was coming, when he felt his Lordship's hot tongue, his Lordship's deliberate hand massaging one little pebble while his mouth released all the weight and discomfort of the other. Anka's whorish cunt shuddered and came quite untouched. Anka put a fist in his mouth so as not to scream from it. The children were sleeping only just down the hall.</p><p>Summerstoke switched to the other tit, to relieve that too, to give it all his wonderful attention while Anka came apart beneath him. Summerstoke dropped a hand down to that quivering cunt and played two fingers into it. Rubbing the wet, firm and decided. Giving such a good rub in particular to Anka's little nub. Anka spread his legs for more, mind going bright at the edges. He fucked into the firm hand, hoping for some of those fingers to slide into his slit.</p><p>Summerstoke had incredible fingers. An incredible tongue. An even more incredible prick, thick and long in his human form and bigger yet in his Wrollf form. Thinking of it made Anka's mind go carefully blank in anticipation of the mingled pain and pleasure Summerstoke could give him. </p><p>But after he'd shuddered past his first orgasm, Summerstoke just kept playing with him gently. Rubbing, petting, coaxing. He sucked Anka's tits dry and then pressed kisses to his breasts, his ribcage. The fading scars on his belly. The pad of his thumb worked Anka's clit-bead, making the pleasure start to build again. But Summerstoke didn't take his cock out.</p><p>Anka whined, disoriented and needy. Summerstoke paid him no heed. Now his warm mouth found Anka's hipbones, and followed the line of Anka's body to his erect little cocklet. Anka was drooling at the tip there, furiously hard.</p><p>Summerstoke's mouth closed on it. </p><p>Anka could barely stifle his scream of shock. Shock and pleasure. No one had ever -- <i>ever</i>--</p><p>But Summerstoke <i>was</i>. </p><p>Anka knew he wasn't much of a mouthful, that his underdeveloped young dryad's cock was useless. A bare little twig, that wouldn't be anything to speak of until he matured and was Kouvi's age. But it still responded to the velvety-hot tunnel of Summerstoke's mouth. The Earl's whole tongue could lathe the length of it, curl around the little weeping head. While Anka keened and fucked up into his mouth, hands fisting the sheets now. </p><p>He was unmoored. It felt so good. He had known pleasure before, but not like this, not this singleminded attention to his cocklet. Summerstoke's mouth was warm bliss. Anka fucked into it, out of his head with the warmth and wet. Two fingers slipped into his cunt and added more pleasure yet, enough to make Anka dizzy. </p><p>When he came, he came from cock and cunt. He came in a shuddering wave and at the same time in three or four little spurts. He was making wild, sated noises. His toes curled from the utter pleasure of it.</p><p>Summerstoke did not pull away until the little cocklet was done coming. Then he moved up to Anka's mouth and kissed the dryad again. Anka tasted himself, the strange fresh taste, and moaned at it. Summerstoke coaxed him into swallowing some of his own cum, kissed it into him. Anka went more boneless still at the filthiness of it.</p><p>Anka was breathing hard now. He looked up at Summerstoke through his lashes, expectant. Summerstoke pressed their foreheads together and looked back, a long and deep and piercing look. His warm breath was on Anka's cheek. Anka felt every part of himself covered up, consumed by this man, the man he loved.</p><p>"Master," he breathed out, still shaking from pleasure. He'd never called Bardolph that. Only Summerstoke. That way the word could be a blessing. "M-master--"</p><p>But now a shadow came over Summerstoke's eyes and he put two fingers to Anka's lips.</p><p>"No, Anka," he said, gently. "Robert. Call me Robert, my bird."</p><p>Then his hand found Anka's hand and pinned it down, and he was drawing the coverlet over them. His whole heavy body was on Anka's body. As if he were wary of what Anka would do if he were not pinned like this.</p><p>He lifted Anka's chin for another kiss, such a soft one. Anka felt the hard bulge of his cock through his trousers and tried to fuck into it, but Summerstoke stilled him.</p><p>"Sleep," he ordered Anka. "No hurting yourself tonight. Sleep, my Anka."</p><p>-</p><p>After that, each night, Summerstoke came to him. Came to milk him until, by late winter, Anka was dry and had no more milk to give. Came to let Anka fuck himself silly on his fingers, on his attentive tongue. The Earl lapped at Anka's cunt until Anka shrieked his pleasure into the pillows, and rubbed Anka's aching, stiff clit-bead. He fisted Anka's sorry little cocklet until it dribbled out its small share of pale green cum, and even played with the little marbles of Anka's ballsack. Anka was an instrument for Summerstoke -- <i>Robert</i> -- to play, to wrench ever-new pleasures from. Night after night, the Earl left him fuck-dazed and needing more.</p><p>Anka was greedy for his cock. He could feel its stiff hardness through Summerstoke's trousers. He would reach for it, try to chase it with his hips. Beg for it.</p><p>"L-let me suck it," he'd say, some nights. "Oh, I can suck it for you, <i>please</i>--"</p><p>Hot and heavy on his tongue, choking him stupid as he kneeled. The reward would be Summerstoke's firm hand in his hair, and the sound of the Earl's voice as Anka did what he did best for him.</p><p>But when Anka asked for that, all Summerstoke would do was kiss him again. Kiss him and kiss him until he was whimpering and agreeable. And by then he'd be stroking Anka's little cock again, and Anka would be unable to think for the pleasure. </p><p>No, the most Summerstoke would do with his cock was rub the big firm head on Anka's wet cunt lips until Anka came. Slide it between Anka's thighs, so Anka could feel the length and girth and come on that alone. Turn Anka onto his stomach and make him sleep with the hard pole between his arse cheeks, so that just the feel of the hot shaft would leave Anka's little cock spurting as he slept, restless and needy and yet more satisfied than he ever before had been. In the morning the Earl would come on him, then gently clean it up, as if Anka weren't used to come all over him. Anka would blink, dazed, and wonder at the massive self-control of this man. Summerstoke had always had control, but not like this.</p><p>"Why won't you just fuck me?" he asked Summerstoke once, when this was done and Summerstoke was just holding and petting him. Petting him so nicely, so kindly.</p><p>"You're healing," Summerstoke said, simply.</p><p>"My cunt's not half as bad now," Anka mumbled. </p><p>Nor his arse. With Summerstoke distracting him from hurting himself, he was, for the first time in years, the palest green down there. The barest shade of green. Like any healthy young dryad who wasn't being roughed up nightly. </p><p>But Summerstoke only said, "It's not just your cunt that needs healing, Anka."</p><p>-</p><p>They were to leave after the boys' birthday in May. It fell on the first day of spring. Blooming Day, it was called in Monrovia. Anka had always loved Blooming Day, loved the end of winter and the onset of warmth and sunshine. </p><p>But now he had a greater reason still to love it, and it wasn't the promise of D'laniaa that gave him that. No, it was because on Blooming Day, for the boys' birthday, Anka would play host to a few more young guests.</p><p>Summerstoke had two siblings, Geraldine and Jem, who Anka had always assumed did not like him. He knew that they had helped rescue him from Allerton, somehow, and yet when he'd woken a week or so later he hadn't seen a hair of them. They seemed to have returned to Summerstoke's country seat rather than waiting for the dryad to wake, and Anka did not question that. It was perfectly natural. He had barely ever meant anything to Summerstoke. He didn't suppose himself to mean anything to the Earl's family.</p><p>But a month or so before Wintermass a letter came for him, on thick green paper, bearing Summerstoke's wolf-seal. </p><p>
  <i>Dear Anka,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I regret that I could not stay in the city to welcome you back to us. I regret more that, upon our every meeting, I did and said some things regarding you which were shameful. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>I cannot abide people who ask for forgiveness with words alone. Please find enclosed some scent-bottles made from working with the boys in my garden -- much stronger than I usually make them. The thyme-perfume is Kalki's favorite scent, and he has made it for you. The lavender is Kip's favorite scent, and he has made that for you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Jem is quite as sorry as I am, and encloses a drawing he made of the boys.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>With sincerest regret and yet the firmest hope for your friendship,<br/>
Geraldine Westruther</i>
</p><p>And there enclosed were two little scent-bottles which Anka's first clutch, his lost clutch, had actually touched. And a fine charcoal drawing of a little tow-headed dryad and a plump, sleepy Wrollfkit.</p><p>Anka had never received any gifts so great in all his life. And as the months passed there were to be more of them. Satchels prepared by his little lost boys, and more of Jem's pictures of them at play. Letters from Geraldine regarding their cleverness at their schooling, and letters too from Freddie and Euphemia Audley, the only parents Kalki and Kip had ever known, detailing their every quirk and invented game, their passionate childish obsessions. Promising to bring the boys to the city on Blooming Day, when it was warm enough for little Kalki to travel. So that Anka could meet them, could meet the children he'd never been permitted to know.</p><p>Orrak had given Anka the money Anka had earned on that long-ago day when he'd sold himself in the Tangle. Anka gave it to Urk and begged him to buy something not just for his birthday clutch, his little Elly and Edward. But for their brothers, as well. </p><p>"I can't welcome them empty-handed," he said, twisting his hands anxiously. "They've had the best of everything. I must have some little present for them, Urk."</p><p>"Meeting their mother's the best present they're ever likely to get," Urk told Anka thoughtfully.</p><p>But Anka did not think so. Euphemia Audley had been his friend once, and so he knew that she was a vivacious, lovely, deeply kind person. A greater mother the boys could not have had in anyone, let alone in a whore like Anka. And Freddie Audley was a beautiful golden-haired gentleman, agreeable and yet proud and lordly. No one suggested that Anka offer himself as a parent to Kalki and Kip, when Kalki and Kip had Euphemia and Freddie for parents. How could anyone suggest that? Anka would be a sorry sort of family, if those boys had been raised by Freddie and Euphemia. </p><p>And indeed, this made the thought of leaving for D'laniaa ever-more-agonizing and painful. Anka could not ask the Audleys, a comfortable country couple who bred horses and ran some sort of experimental beet farm, to uproot their family for the jungle islands. Nor could he ask them to hand him their children. Their letters revealed that they doted on Kalki and Kip, that their family needed no intervention from the well-used little slut that had carried the clutch and suffered his first labor pains with a cock in his mouth.</p><p>But they were kind enough to bring the boys on Blooming Day. On that day, great vases of tulips and daffodils were set out on the pretty green tables in the back garden. Crocuses peeked out along the paths, and the day was dewy-bright after a lovely sun shower had brightened up all the leaves of the trees. The Countess brought lovely paper crowns for Elly and Edward, and Lord Taverner plied the boys with enough Wrollf dolls to make Elly scream with unalloyed delight. The maids brought out cakes and cream-dolloped fizzy drinks that made Anka's head spin, and Kouvi sat in the trees pelting Orrak and Urk with hard little nuts, as his tiny great-nephews shrieked with laughter.</p><p>Summerstoke had gone to meet the party at the rail station. So he was not there to hold Anka's hand as Anka waited, agonized. Anka ended up biting at his green-tipped nails until the Countess stilled him in this.</p><p>And then they were there. Kip ambled in first, even fatter and more robust than Edward, with his thick dark hair and his inquisitive, slit-pupiled Wrollf eyes. Then Kalki. The littlest slip of a baby Anka had ever pushed out, now leggy as a seedling hungry to grow. </p><p>Urk had bought each of the four boys a colorful spinning top made of fine wood, each in a velvet-padded box from a very fine store. Anka kneeled before his first clutch and shyly offered them each one of the pretty boxes. Hoping it would be enough.</p><p>Kalki brushed past that and launched himself into Anka's arms, followed by Kip after only the barest second.</p><p>"You're our mum!" Kalki crowed. "It's really you! Kip, it's <i>really him</i>!"</p><p>So Urk was right, after all.</p><p>-</p><p>"Mummy," Kip said after the party, when he was waking from a nap on a doting Anka's stomach and had his strong little Wrollf arms around Anka's neck. "Th'earl said we're going to D'laniaa with you. Th'earl and papa and mama planned it. We're going to be the Monrovian On-boys, mummy."</p><p>Anka was half-asleep himself. He had eaten a great many salads and a little bit of cake, and was now on the wicker garden chaise in the sun, droopy but happy. But now he started. He stared down at where, in the dirt before the chaise, Summerstoke and Kalki were teaching Elly to play pick-up sticks. A little behind them, Kouvi and Geraldine and the Countess were playing ring-a-rosy with a laughing Edward.</p><p>"Envoys," was all Summerstoke said, above the singing and the delighted childish joy.</p><p>"That, mummy," said Kip.</p><p>Anka could only stare at Summerstoke. The Earl was in his shirtsleeves and his broad, powerful forearms were bare. The bright spring sun burnished his cinnamon hair until it was as bold a crown as the paper one on Elly's head.</p><p>"Envoys?" Anka tried.</p><p>"I spoke to John about it," Summerstoke said, as if it were nothing. "He agreed, and Euphemia is mad to do her part to cement peace between Monrovia and your people. Freddie agreed because he always does. And Jem has asked to go with you -- I think he means to travel a bit."</p><p>It was all so perfectly planned, and yet for a moment all Anka could think was that he only wanted this. He wanted his children and his family with him, and Summerstoke before him. Summerstoke looking just like that, like a king who had wrapped himself in all the kindness of spring.</p><p>But -- but Summerstoke had done his part, it seemed, to nudge Anka to D'laniaa. Done his part to ensure Anka's first clutch would be going with him.</p><p>"You want me to leave," Anka realized.</p><p>It was stark and painful, and yet somehow lovely, in a way. If Summerstoke had merely ordered Anka to go, it would only have hurt. But Summerstoke had arranged things so that one of Anka's greatest reasons for staying no longer existed, so that Anka would have the reward of knowing his first clutch would be with him.</p><p>"Of course I don't want you to leave," Summerstoke said. "But I don't want you to stay."</p><p>His gaze flicked up, and Anka was caught in it. Summerstoke's fine hand reached out and passed through his hair, the touch warm and controlled.</p><p>"You're a jungle dryad, love," Summerstoke whispered. "I have no right to keep you. I never did."</p><p>-</p><p>Anka could not look at him when the ship departed. His heart would have broken. So he looked at the wailing Edward, at the miserable line of the Countess' mouth. </p><p>And then his heart broke anyway.</p><p>The journey was long, a wave-rolled, storm-tossed ship journey made better only by the times Kouvi dragged him, Elly, and Kalki up to the crows' nest. The hours Anka spent teaching all three of his remaining boys and Euphemia and Freddie D'lani, and perfecting his own. The first time Orrak and Jem swung down the side of the boat on ropes and used their claws to pluck fish from the surface of the sea.</p><p>Anka discovered that he liked the taste of fresh fish. It was something to do with being part-naiad. His claws, too, turned out to be better at fishing and gutting than the Wrollves'.</p><p>And after two weeks, something in the air changed. A heavy, hot wetness came on the ship from all sides. The Wrollves and humans sweated horribly, and Anka had to take his little Kip down into the hold, the only remaining cold spot, and find a salve to put on his sunburned skin. But Anka himself began to feel marvelous. Alert, and quick in ways he never had been before. Strong. They had passed onto the perfect, hot Delany sea, where it was always summer, never winter. </p><p>Soon the first islands of D'laniaa rose out of the hazy heat. The sand was blinding white, and the green of the jungles was darker than Anka had thought it might be. Such an intent, vivid mass of green. The sea was so clear that they could see schools of gemstone-colored fish parting before the prow of the boat. Red and purple birds darted over the surface of the waters, calling out sing-songs that Kalki and Elly and Kip all echoed back, when they weren’t clutching the ship rails and screaming excitedly.</p><p>And then, among the schools of fish, strong brown limbs and handsome brown bodies. The naiads had tangled white hair, the bluest of blue veining, and teeth that were sharp points. But their pretty, pointed faces were like those of the D'lani, even if their claws were most decidedly not. They guided the boat to the white sands, where now many brown, golden-haired forms were appearing, welcoming them.</p><p>Anka waded to shore with Elly in his arms, with Euphemia holding Kalki and Freddie holding Kip behind him. Anka should have been careful, and stayed behind a bit. But instead he rushed forward, eager to see the people on the shore. </p><p>Other dryads and naiads. Real ones. More than Anka had ever imagined could exist. Kouvi had said that, already, the D'lani that had fled to Ordania and Irvidistan were returning.</p><p>In his excitement to see them, Anka nearly tripped and fell. But a strong, tall Naiad with pearls set into his sharp teeth was wading behind him, and caught him before he and Elly could tumble into the surf. Anka stared up at his fathomless black eyes.</p><p>The naiad's touch was cold, but for once it was so hot around Anka that a little bit of cold felt perfectly fine. And the naiad spoke such perfect D'lani, so musical and lovely that Elly gave a little <i>oooh</i> to hear it.</p><p>"You both look like my Eleyi," said Ril'karrat Of-The-Deeps. He pressed a kiss to Elly's forehead, and then wistfully put a blue-tipped finger -- claws retracted now -- to Anka's hair. "But for this. Beautiful. Like the darkest parts of the sea. Come, now, little ones. Let us make a home for you."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Only the epilogue left now! I am gonna miss this fic when it’s over, I think.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. His Robert</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Timeskip!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By age fifteen, His Royal Highness King Edward Randolph Everett Hampshire V was already regarded as one of the finest monarchs Monrovia had ever had. </p><p>He was known as King Edward the Fair, both for his coloring and for his general sense of decency. The young king held himself to exacting standards. In the first ten years of his reign, the workhouses were closed and new housing built for the Capitol poor, and the smog-spewing rail line was modernized until it was cleaner and less hazardous. Ordania and Irvidistan became independent allies instead of mere vassals, and the Royal Exploration Company -- that great engine which had guzzled up so much of the world simply to line the pockets of Monrovia's fine lords -- was disbanded entirely.  </p><p>In this, Edward had the counsel of his adoptive mother, the Countess of Salford. An intelligent, imposing woman, she taught His Majesty the customs and languages of many a foreign power, so that Edward became renowned for his cultural acumen. The great Lord Taverner oversaw Edward's armies, and helped the Countess school the king in diplomacy. Even the Wrollves of the Norderlands came to respect and appreciate Edward, though much of the credit for that had to be given to Monrovia's ambassador to those territories, Lady Geraldine Westruther, now known to be not merely a Monrovian but also a Wrollfmaiden in her own right.</p><p>As for the day-to-day running of the kingdom, there Edward often called upon Lady Geraldine's half-brother. Robert, the Earl of Summerstoke. </p><p>Summerstoke found the role difficult, unrewarding, and entirely necessary. When public schools were opened to educate all the nation's children, Edward could not be forced to hear the rage of the ignorant minority that wanted Inhuman children excluded. Summerstoke would happily take those complaints, and even more happily tell the complainants to stuff it. When taxes were raised on the finest of noble houses to fund the Capitol's sorely-needed public sewage system, in order to improve conditions in the slums, Edward could not be left to face the slings of their fellow lords and ladies. Summerstoke would shoulder the blame. He was an inflexible, relentless social-fixer of the lowest sort, and proud to be, even though it meant that now he was more or less the special enemy of just about every bully and miser in the nation.</p><p>Better him than young Edward.</p><p>"Does Doctor Nenge have enough funds for the second public hospital building?" Edward asked Summerstoke one day, when they were meeting together in the old war room. It no longer boasted pictures of Edward's ancestors, for Edward had the peculiar quirk of utterly despising his Hampshire blood. He had dispensed with those warlike portraits, save the one of a distant cousin, Judith Lanyon. In their place were fine modern paintings of the Capitol procured by the Castle housekeeper, Ms. Little; tapestries gifted by Irvidistani allies; and delicate sketches sent to the king by Summerstoke's brother Jem, an envoy to far-off D'laniaa. Edward could spend many a meeting gazing distractedly at the sketches, in particular. But not this meeting. </p><p>The first public hospital had been the young king's own idea, built on the site of his father's old stables. Summerstoke had been proud of Edward for his initiative in that.</p><p>"Your Majesty's generous gift to the hospital committee means that a second hospital site may be possible this year," Summerstoke told him. "More than possible. While we require perhaps another thousand in funding, the citizens of Wakeshire are willing to make up the missing amount, if--"</p><p>"No," Edward said mulishly. "I don't want the next public hospital built in Wakeshire, Lord Robert. They don't need it."</p><p>Summerstoke raised an eyebrow. It wasn't often Edward took a pet these days, but he well remembered the earlier years of the king's reign, when Edward had been prone to all manner of tantrums. The Countess had coaxed him out of those tantrums and Taverner had always gone firm, but Summerstoke preferred to just ignore the poor behavior, not ceding an ounce of control by even acknowledging it. </p><p>"Wakeshire has the space, your majesty, and they have taken the liberty of proposing an architect who seems to know his business--"</p><p>"<i>No</i>," Edward said, biting his lip and flushing. "I will make up the money myself if I have to, from my own coffers. But I want it built in the Gin Tangle. For the--the ladies of the night. And the laborers and such. And the children, Lord Robert. Boys and girls younger than I am, on the streets, working frightfully dangerous sorts of trades that can get them ill or injured or in -- in the <i>family</i> way. They need to be able to see good doctors."</p><p>And by now the young king had managed to flush such a vivid color that his normally white skin was red as a brick. But he held Summerstoke's gaze.</p><p>Something in the Earl twisted up. Edward might be young, but he was a good king. A good boy. Sitting here with his hands clenched on the table, as if he thought Summerstoke might deny him this.</p><p>"That's a wonderful idea," Summerstoke said, when he found his voice. "That's--Edward. That is wonderful."</p><p>And now Edward was ducking his head with pleasure. Something in the way his mouth quirked, in the way he bloomed at the faintest sort of praise, took the twisted bit of the Earl and wrung it even more painfully still. </p><p>Edward had not gotten this sweet need for praise from Bardolph.</p><p>"I will give a thousand myself," Summerstoke said. </p><p>He wouldn't give it for Wakeshire, but he would give it for the Tangle. </p><p>The smile that blossomed on young Edward's face was its own reward. The rest of the meeting passed almost gaily, for all that it had to do with revisions to the local tax code. Edward was in high spirits as he and Summerstoke broke for the afternoon, leaving the war room and turning together into one of the great mirrored hallways that made up most of Castle Voliere. Warm spring sun tried its best to break into the castle, but the structure was so old and forbidding that the only way to brighten the halls was through mirrors -- mirrors and candles and gaslight where it could be fitted in. None of that a proper substitute for real sunshine. Edward looked longingly at the tall open windows as he spoke.</p><p>"--Cousin Hermia says you must stay for supper. We'll have it on the terrace, won't we? By the Elm Walk. Lord Taverner got me three of the shaggiest ponies you've ever seen from his visit to Princess Salina of Praknita. I've given two to Elsie's girls. They're always racing them down the Elm Walk. It's good fun to watch, even if Cousin Hermia would rather I not participate--"</p><p>He broke off. Summerstoke spared a glance for the young king and found him fixated on the long window at the end of the receiving hall. Edward took in a sudden breath.</p><p>Then he was sprinting wildly, as only a fifteen year old boy could, past footmen and servants and lords looking to catch his eye. When he reached the window, he wrenched it open with a cry. Summerstoke, at his heels, said, "Edward, what on earth--"</p><p>But then he saw it too. In the great yew in the middle of the Castle lawn, a slender, grinning figure. For a moment, Summerstoke could only think that it must be Anka. That boy looked exactly like Anka had: the ink-black hair and eyes, the green fingers and the pointed ears. But where Anka had been bruised and pale and dirty, swollen with child and yet so pitifully thin you could count the ribs on him, this child-dryad was healthy as a lovingly-kept rose. His dark eyes sparkled as he waved to Edward.</p><p>"Elly!" Edward was screaming, joyous and shocked.</p><p>Eleyi -- for it had to be him -- gave a grin and then walked across one of the great yew branches, balancing with ease. Showing off.</p><p>"Elly!" Edward shouted again. And then the young prince was haring off for the great central stair of the Castle, eager to get down to the lawn. Summerstoke was well ahead of him by then, but only because he could not imagine Eleyi might have returned to Monrovia alone. Someone had to be with Eleyi, <i>Anka</i> had to--</p><p>But no. No. He would not permit himself to give in to what might be formless hope. Eleyi might have come with Covey, or a cousin or something. Anka's letters, those too-rare marvels that Summerstoke locked safely away in his desk drawer and prized more than all his damned estates, had revealed that the lines of Ril'karrat and Eleyi touched many, many clutches, that Anka and his children had far more family than they had ever realized. And Anka had no reason to leave that. </p><p>Still, Summerstoke could not keep from walking briskly. Jogging a bit. No, running. </p><p>Racing like a boy to the great double doors to the Castle lawn. He and Edward wrenched them open together, and then they were out in the bright summer sun. </p><p>The Countess had beaten them there. Her tall form was at the base of the yew tree, hugging someone tight. After a moment's pause she stepped back, and they could see who she had been embracing. </p><p>Anka. Oh, it <i>was</i> Anka. More tanned, and with such a beautiful flush of maturing green along his hands. His dark hair was cropped a bit shorter, but was still such a perfect gleaming black, and his face was still the unlined, pretty face of a youth-dryad. He was a bit taller now, grown and yet still growing, for dryads did not age as humans did. Summerstoke had mistaken Anka's age by about five years when they'd met -- indeed, Anka himself had assumed he was younger than he really was, not knowing then that his kind always started out small and slender -- and so now Anka had to be into his thirties. That was nothing to a dryad. Anka was still very young among his own people. He had a good two or three decades before he'd be expected to enter adulthood.</p><p>But his dark gaze was steady. By now Edward had reached him and thrown himself into his mother's arms. Anka, though he'd had his clutches while still very young for a dryad, hugged Edward with the intent reverence of any parent. And, after a moment, looked over Edward's shoulder straight at Summerstoke.</p><p>It was a gentle agony, walking those few more yards to him, with Anka's black eyes on him. Eyes that had seen Summerstoke at his very worst. </p><p>By the time Summerstoke reached the little family, Eleyi had scampered down to the ground and was laughing, trying to pull on his shoes while his brother hugged him fiercely and his grandmother cried out her own joy. </p><p>"Anka," Summerstoke said. He wanted to take Anka into his arms, but could not permit that of himself. Even though his inner Wrollf was desperate to feel Anka's slim shoulders and the light press of the dryad's arms. </p><p>Anka himself only looked. He brought up one of those pretty hands, his green-tipped fingers just an inch from Summerstoke's chest. </p><p>"My lord--"</p><p>"<i>Robert</i>," Summerstoke insisted, desperate himself. He had never succeeded in getting Anka to use the name. The dryad had seemed stuck on calling Summerstoke master, a title that once the Earl had gloried in but which, for over a decade now, had only made both the man and the Wrollf in him lapse into periodic, intense self-hate. </p><p>Anka blushed, rather more prettily than Edward had. Green bloomed along his lovely face. Summerstoke could not help but to put a hand to his cheek, chasing the color, and Anka turned his face into it.</p><p>"Robert," he said. Very quietly, as if he were saying it just for Summerstoke. "How--how have you been? Your letters don't say very much on that score, my lo--No. My-- Robert."</p><p><i>My</i> Robert. A slip of the tongue. But -- but how Summerstoke wished it wasn't. How he wished Anka really meant that. The dryad did not know it, but he was dangling Summerstoke's most fervent hope before him.</p><p>And, very likely, it would be wrenched away in minutes, for Anka was not Summerstoke's. Had never truly been Summerstoke's. This truth had felled every part of Summerstoke, Wrollf and man, for the past ten years. But the Earl was surviving that. It was no less than he deserved, really.</p><p>He did not get a chance to answer the dryad. The Countess and Anka's children were now climbing down from the knot of roots at the base of the yew, turning towards them. Summerstoke hastily put his hand down, as Edward exclaimed, "Cousin Hermia, you didn't say!"</p><p>"I didn't know, darling," the Countess said, wiping her eyes. "Anka and Eleyi didn't tell a soul they were coming. Not even me."</p><p>Anka self-consciously tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear at her mock-accusatory tone.</p><p>"We alerted Lord Taverner when we landed this morning, for we wanted to come straight to the castle," he said. "But we didn't tell anyone, no. Elly is fifteen. That's one of the last years before clutch-readiness for a child, and important in D'laniara. So when he asked to see Edward, well. I wanted to give him that."</p><p>"But I wanted it to be a surprise!" Elly said roundly. "Or else Edward would have agonized about getting everything ready for us." He rolled his eyes and reached up to tweak his brother's rounded ear. Edward only giggled at this, as if he were a little boy himself and not a strapping lad already a good foot taller than his twin. </p><p>"But how on earth did you make preparations without alerting someone?" the Countess demanded, as if she were determined to find out who Anka's accomplice had been. She shot suspicious looks at Summerstoke, like she thought it might have been him. "A decent cabin in a decent ship from D'laniara costs dearly, and is hard to find. Please don't tell me you and Eleyi stowed away on some sort of merchant vessel--"</p><p>Anka waved her off.</p><p>"I have my own funds, my lady. From the work I did when I was young here."</p><p>Now he shot another of those earth-shattering looks at Summerstoke. His voice was still low but firm.</p><p>"When I worked at Miss Rivenhall's Academy. That money, his lordship put it in trust for me with Mr. Audley. Mr. Audley helped us book a decent cabin with it, and a decent cabin to return, too. So you need not worry on mine and Eleyi's account."</p><p>It was clear that the dryad did not mean to shame Summerstoke with this. Anka had a generous heart, and always looked to find the smallest scraps of kindness for which he could be grateful. But his delicate phrasing -- no doubt delicate for the benefit of his children -- hid the ugly truth of what Summerstoke had really done. Anka had earned that money on his back, taking cock to line Summerstoke's pockets. A child fucked day in and day out, cummed on and beaten and choked with pricks, until he'd become a pliable, broken sex slave. A slave fit to trade to Bardolph. </p><p>"Shall we eat together?" Edward was saying now, excitedly. "Right here in the gardens? Elly, you need to meet Elsie's daughters! And I have an Irvidistani pony for you--"</p><p>"The pony can wait," the Countess said firmly. "We must call up the kitchens and make sure they send enough greens--"</p><p>And now the little family was turning away. Anka was still looking back at Summerstoke, with a quiet question in his eyes. But Summerstoke shook his head and stepped back.</p><p>He could not, would not take Anka's time with his family. He would not take any more from Anka than he already had.</p><p>-</p><p>That night, alone in his townhouse, Summerstoke set himself to getting well and truly drunk.</p><p>Not so drunk that he couldn't tug himself off. He considered calling in a whore -- he was a man with needs, and once Anka had been seen safely off to D'laniara he'd discovered in him a predilection for dark-haired young whores of all genders. He'd never treated them as he had Anka, never been so atrocious. But ten years was a long time to go without, and so he had most assuredly sampled his fair share of slim young brunettes in that time. There was one, a boy who Summerstoke had found in the Tangle and eventually seen apprenticed to Doctor Nenge, who had Anka's same sweet innate gratitude, and always came to the townhouse when called, only too eager to sink to his hands and knees and take Summerstoke's cock in his arse.  </p><p>But Summerstoke had seen the real thing today. The imitations would not do. Nothing would do, nothing but to undo his trousers in his study. Pull out his cock, stroke himself firmly, and think of Anka at the base of the yew tree. The way Anka's lower lip had dipped open in a little sigh when Summerstoke had touched him. The way his pretty collarbones and slender hips looked draped in those traveling clothes. Loose, flowing clothes in the D'lani style, which suited Anka so beautifully. </p><p>Summerstoke had been so afraid, once, to lose Anka to D'laniaa as he had Covey. But he was glad that it had happened at last. </p><p>Still, when he spent, it was with a muffled curse. He was a tangle of man's desire and Wrollf's sense of justice, a confused snarl of want and reason. So he had to pour himself another drink.</p><p>Before he could knock it back, there was a tap at the window behind him.</p><p>It could be the branches of the old garden oak. It could be that. But, somehow, Summerstoke knew it was not. When he turned, with his softening cock still large against his thigh, it was to see Anka there. </p><p>His Anka. The beautiful black eyes blinking, the green tongue darting out for an instant, as Anka beheld the disheveled, self-pleasured Earl.</p><p>"Robert," he said. He said it like a question, like he was still not certain he should be saying it.</p><p>Summerstoke only nodded at him encouragingly, knowing Anka wanted that. Needed it. After all the abuse he had taken, Anka needed nods and pets, kind touches and a great deal of pleasure. Summerstoke was stretched thin with the hopeless desire to give that to him. He could make it good for his Anka. He could. </p><p>Anka came forward, his movements graceful. He stopped before Summerstoke on the rug. There was a time he would have sunk to his knees as a matter of course, but Summerstoke was pleased to see that in ten years the dryad had developed more pride than to do that. Instead Anka cupped his jaw.</p><p>"I didn't just come back for Eleyi to see his brother," he told Summerstoke. "I wanted to see Edward. And my mother, and Lord Taverner and Elsie. And I'm Monrovian-born, and wanted to see Monrovia as well. And I needed to pay some respects to my clutchmate."</p><p>He shuddered and closed his eyes. Summerstoke could not help but to bring up a hand to rub away the tear that appeared at Anka's pretty dark lashes.</p><p>"And--" Anka said, after breathing in deep. "--and I wanted to see you, my-- my Robert."</p><p><i>My</i> Robert. Anka's Robert. </p><p>If Anka were not taking off his clothes already now, then Summerstoke would have been doing it. He could only bite out, "Yes. Yours, my Anka. <i>Yours</i>--" as the dryad stripped out of his loose shirt and wide D'lani trousers. </p><p>Then Anka was in his lap, long-limbed and pretty and trembling. The prettiest little universe of moistened cunt, lovely tits, and tiny green-tipped cock. He was so light, but he felt like a heady, perfect gift, a weight on Summerstoke's mind and heart and conscience. The Earl drew him in on instinct, wanting him. Wanting to make Anka his again.</p><p>"I know you're an Earl," Anka was saying rapidly now, still blinking away a few tears as he wound his arms around Summerstoke's broad shoulders. "You're a great man, my lord Robert. You always have been. And I -- I was nothing but a few holes for you to enjoy--"</p><p>"No," Summerstoke bit out roughly. "Anka, no. You were more than that--"</p><p>Anka shook his head wildly, and his words seemed to pour out of him like he needed to say them. "I was a whore. I was there to be fucked, so you fucked me. But I'm more than that now, my lord. I'm a dryad and a naiad -- a proper child of D'laniara. I'm a mother and a nephew and a son. I'm Anka Eleyi Weds-Leaves-to-Sea, my -- my <i>Robert</i>. I'm fit to be mated. I should like--"</p><p>He broke off, like he was afraid he might be asking for too much. Summerstoke rubbed away some of those tears again. Anka was offering. He was plainly offering. But Summerstoke would still ask, just to let the dryad have a choice.</p><p>"Do you want me to mate you, Anka?"</p><p>Anka nodded. Nodded and nodded, and bit out, "<i>Yes, please</i>--" and that was all Summerstoke needed. He kissed the dryad ruthlessly, tasting Anka's fresh green taste. Anka moaned into his mouth, the sweetest little moan. His naked hips ground down onto the Earl's cock, and Summerstoke felt that cock firming up in response. How could it not respond? Anka's pefect green cunt was drooling so sweetly on it. Drooling a welcome, an invitation. </p><p>"I'll mate you," Summerstoke promised, into his mouth. "I'll mate you like a Wrollf and wed you like a man, and then I'll do to you whatever it is the D'lani do when they claim a mate. Would you like that, my sweet?"</p><p>"Yes," Anka breathed out. "Yes, yes, yes, my lord--"</p><p>But no. No, Summerstoke needed him to learn <i>Robert</i>. He tweaked one of Anka's pretty nipples as a small correction, and was delighted to find the dryad keening into his mouth at that. Still sensitive, then. Good. Summerstoke never planned to really hurt him, not ever again, but he didn't miss the fact that Anka's body still took a minor pain like this as pleasure. That tiny cocklet had gone rock-hard at the small twinge, as hard as Summerstoke's own thick pole was. Because Anka -- Anka was <i>perfect</i>. </p><p>His velvety cunt was catching on the head of Summerstoke's prick now. Each time Anka managed to glance the hard rod he'd moan a bit, his anticipation clear. Summerstoke reached down and lined them up properly, so the big head was parting those wet outer lips.</p><p>Anka sank down. Not too far -- the little dryad was tight as anything. Too tight to fuck fully without hurting himself. The first few inches of Summerstoke's prick were a stretch that had Anka throwing back his head and crying out, eyes rolling back. Summerstoke himself was mirroring the gesture. The hot little channel of Anka was such a delicious squeeze, a nice taut tunnel, just slick enough to pry open and no more.</p><p>Anka's thighs were straining. Summerstoke patted them, trying to soothe the worked-up dryad. The kindness of this was enough to bring Anka back a bit. With a ragged noise, the pretty dryad managed to fuck down a bit deeper still. Summerstoke had to clench his teeth at the soft, wet press of that cunt, struggling to take him in. </p><p>Anka was a treasure. And Anka plainly wanted this, wanted to slide onto every inch of Summerstoke's cock. He was breathing hard and flushed green nearly everywhere, but still he worked his hips, fucking his little vise onto the Earl. Summerstoke patted his pretty flanks, his full arse. Whispered encouragement to him.</p><p>"That's it, Anka, my Anka, my good Anka--"</p><p>"M--my lord," Anka moaned again.</p><p>No. That earned the dryad a hard slap to his arse. Anka blinked at the sudden pain, but his cunt shuddered, too. That was all it took to have Anka coming, that slap. He could come at just that hurt, just enough to throw him off his rhythm. Come at the reminder of what it was to feel Summerstoke's control. He spasmed around the big cock in him and nearly lost his balance, except that Summerstoke held him up so he could ride out the wave of pleasure. </p><p>Anka feeling pleasure was a sight to see. Anka undone. The loveliest, best vision, the vision that had kept Summerstoke warm some ten years now. Now happening right here in his arms, with the same electric cries and the slick, slippery sounds of that pretty cunt going sated. </p><p>And Anka had always been a quick study. Because now he was moaning, "Robert, <i>Robert</i>--"</p><p>Summerstoke had to draw him in closer, close enough to stand them up. This slid Anka further down on his cock, making the dryad break off and wail as his nails dug into Summerstoke's shoulders.</p><p>"Fuck, fuck, Robert, oh, Robert, <i>yes</i>--"</p><p>He laid Anka out on the desk. From this position, he could slide out of the drooling cunt and then angle in again. Deeper. Part that pretty flesh even more, feed Anka more of his cock.</p><p>And his thumb could find the closed little rim of Anka's arse and work itself in. Playing with Anka from both sides. Anka had always responded well to arseplay -- it went straight to the little cocklet. Now that tiny thing was ramrod-straight and leaking pale green pre-cum.</p><p>"Yes, yes," Anka kept panting, eyes wide with need now. Summerstoke was fucking him properly now, with long, deep strokes. Slow enough and deliberate enough to always hit the little spots that made Anka tremble and clench instinctively. In, out, with exacting control. Fucking and making it good. Good for his Anka.</p><p>Soon he was close to coming himself, close to filling the dryad up with spend and seeing the pretty belly bloat with the evidence of Summerstoke's claiming. </p><p>But he wanted to work Anka open more. Get him looser. There was one thing Summerstoke had never given Anka, one thing he had hated himself for denying the boy. One thing he wanted to do for himself as well as Anka.</p><p>He wanted his knot in Anka. He wanted Anka tied to him, bound to him. Plugged up on his cock. At first, he had arrogantly believed Anka unworthy of that. Then, over the years, he had come to see that <i>he</i> was not worthy. Summerstoke did not deserve to knot a good, brave creature like the dryad. </p><p>But Anka had asked. Anka wanted it. And now, finally, Anka would have it.</p><p>It took a few more strokes before all of Summerstoke was in him. Anka's arse was meeting his ballsack, globes meeting globes, as the dryad panted and fucked his hips to answer each stroke. Summerstoke had his gaze locked on those big black eyes, his hands clutching Anka's hands. He bent to kiss Anka again and was rewarded with a hungry kiss back, the dryad dazed but not so gone he couldn't make plain his continuing need.</p><p>There, kissing him, Summerstoke let loose the Wrollf. Anka's mouth opened in a wail, his slender back arched, as the cock inside him grew thicker. Larger. Expanding in him, stretching him more yet. The little cocklet shuddered, trapped as it was beneath Summerstoke's form. It came with a few insistent jerks, no doubt wired to the pain-pleasure in Anka's cunt.</p><p>And Summerstoke was coming too. Coming as a Wrollf, the swell of his knot starting at the base, stretching further the entrance of that well-stretched cunt. All so he could shoot in a good twenty minutes of spend. Shoot the cum deep past Anka's cervix, get the hot thick liquid right into the dryad's womb. Anka was past speech now, fully in the throes of his second cunt-orgasm. Summerstoke kissed his neck as Anka came with incoherent cries. Pressed a hand to the lovely swelling belly, patting Anka through it.</p><p>"Robert," Anka managed, when he was done. His own lithe hands found the bloat of his belly. He blinked, only just coming back to himself. "M-my Robert."</p><p>Summerstoke kissed him again.</p><p>"Good," he said, just to watch Anka flush with pleasure at being praised. He stroked the dryad's hair now and settled in to fill him up. Anka's legs wound around his back. His expert little cunt was clenching, milking the knot as it should.</p><p>"Good," Summerstoke said again. "Very good, my Anka."</p><p>Anka smiled. All his smiles were beautiful, but this one was somehow at peace. A look of perfect calm, as if he felt himself to belong here, taking Summerstoke's knot. </p><p>Forgiving. Boundless in his good heart and his sweet forgiveness. </p><p>Summerstoke broke before that forgiveness. He could not understand it. One moment he had control, as he always did. And then -- then it broke. Then he found himself crying softly and clutching Anka, confused and above all ashamed of himself.</p><p>"Robert," Anka whispered, patting him. "It's alright, my Robert."</p><p>"I'm--I'm <i>sorry</i>--"</p><p>"It's alright," Anka assured him. "Robert, my love. It's going to be alright now. Isn't it?"</p><p>"Yes," Summerstoke ground out fiercely. "Yes, y-yes, my love. I'll make it so. I <i>promise</i>."</p><p>He couldn't understand it. He didn't deserve it. But still, still, for all the charmed, fortunate life he had led, this moment was by far the most fortunate. Anka, Anka who had conquered the Earl of Summerstoke's pathetic, arrogant heart, actually wanted to be Robert's in return. Wanted, despite all the evil and wretchedness the Earl had done him, to be with Robert. </p><p>-</p><p>They were not properly joined until D'laniara. That hard knotting, with bit of licking after, licking to get Summerstoke's scent all over him -- that was all it took to be mated by a Wrollf. And there was a brief Monrovian ceremony, for Taverner and Anka's mother wanted that for Anka, the handfasting and prayers to the saints that John had never had with Kalki, that Hermia had never had with Kerrat.   </p><p>But Anka knew Kouvi and Ril'karrat would have killed him if he hadn't reserved his real wedding for D'laniara. He'd half-expected to have to beg for it to happen on Monrovian soil despite that, for he had not been certain a great Earl like Summerstoke would wish to actually leave for the jungle islands. </p><p>But the morning after the first night, when Anka woke all piled with warm blankets in the Earl's study, it was to find a sleepy Summerstoke at his desk already making plans for his move. Ceding his country property to his sister, leaving Lord Taverner strict instructions for who would be best to fill his place at court.</p><p>The half-life Anka had envisioned, tying himself to Summerstoke in cold Monrovia and perhaps having to stay there, despite the misery it might bring him, all to please the Earl--</p><p>Summerstoke himself did not want that. He understood instinctively that Anka needed him, but Anka needed too to be in D'laniara.</p><p>He booked a cabin on the same return boat as Anka and Eleyi. Anka spent most of the journey back in that cabin, the Earl's cabin. Rediscovering all the desire the handsome man -- Robert, his Robert -- prompted in him. Robert's big cock on his tongue, the mere taste of hot-salty Wrollf spend making Anka's cunt wet itself. Robert's mouth on that needy little clit-bead, as Robert's fingers fucked in deep. Robert in his arse, playing with Anka's cock as he hit the spongy back spot that reduced Anka to mindless wailing. </p><p>Anka even found himself asking for those wonderful long-fingered hands to fist into him. It was a perverse, embarrassing need. But only one of many needs that he hadn't had filled properly, not in ten years.</p><p>D'laniara had far more adult dryads and naiads than young ones, for elves like them were only young for about fifty years or so. Then they had their pre-dinkala, their maturation, and developed adult bodies. Long, thick adult pricks. The old would then woo the still-fertile young, the teenage dryads of twenty-to-fifty, in the hopes of coaxing those pretty things to bear them a clutch. Eleyi and Kalki, fifteen and sixteen, were nearly on the cusp of that, and already excited to begin accepting and rejecting potential suitors in a few years.</p><p>As their mother, Anka was well-past the first age at which he might be wooed and wedded. So he had by now accepted a few dryads and naiads into his bed. His people were handsome, and they seemed to find him fetching as well, with the odd human-dark hair he had, and his blend of dryad-green tips and naiad-black eyes. </p><p>But for a dryad or naiad to be rough with him would have been the height of insult. Elves were not rough by nature, none of them, even if at times they could be fierce. To take a young dryad and cause him pain was considered cruel and foolish. So Anka had discovered a great many terribly kind lovers. Enjoyed them, even. But he had found none who could give him what he needed. What his body had been trained to crave. </p><p>Hil’ki, a dear friend and occasional lover, had agreed sometimes to spank him. Had held Anka when Anka had sobbed after, sobbed out his shame. Ashamed to want the hurt and ashamed by how the hurt was not enough. </p><p>“I--I'm sorry,” Anka had cried out in D’lani, once. “I know it's odd. But I think of his touch, his hand. How even when he would be rough...“</p><p>He'd trailed off. Cunt wet, mind shamed. Heart twisting, as if someone were wringing it out like a sorry little dishrag.</p><p>“Do you want me to be rough with you?” Hil’ki had asked, confused. "Or just a nice spank? Was I bad at it?"</p><p>“No,” Anka had insisted, and meant it despite the continuing need in him. It was not Hil'ki's fault that his friend wasn't what he wanted. Hil’ki was obliging and kind. But Hil’ki did not desperately want every corner of Anka, everything from Anka's wails to Anka's pleasure. Hil'ki did not make Anka shiver every time Anka looked at him. The curve of Hil'ki's smile never promised to have Anka, hold him, <i>keep</i> him.</p><p>“You miss him,” Hil’ki had said gravely. “You miss your Summer. It's alright, Anka-Eleyi. You're allowed to love your Summer, you know.”</p><p>Anka did love him. All of him. Not just his Robert's kindness, but also the edge, the deep need to guide and direct and claim, that made Robert who he was. So he asked for that fantasy on the boat, halting and embarrassed, but desperately hoping Robert would not deny him.</p><p>Robert did not deny him. Anka thrilled to Robert stretching him open and making him take his whole forearm, working a hot length into Anka so deep that Anka couldn't even form words. Could only gurgle and writhe on it, grateful for the lovely throbbing ache that accompanied the extreme fullness and pleasure, while Robert praised him and petted his shaking thighs and told Anka how <i>perfect</i> he was.</p><p>"You're so strong, Anka, my Anka, you can take this--"</p><p>"I--I can," Anka gasped out, his cocklet spurting with abandon. "I can. Oh-<i>oh</i>, deeper -- deeper, <i>please</i>, Robert--"</p><p>He needed this, this mingled love and control. Firm, but with a hint of kindness. Firm, but giving praise, as if Anka were not just a body, not just a hole to fuck, but a person deserving to be be petted and held and cherished. Used like this for no reason other than because Robert Westruther loved him. </p><p>"My beautiful Anka," he whispered, after Anka had come apart on his fist. He washed himself off at the cabin washstand and then returned to hold Anka. Kissed the happy, panting dryad over and over. "My Anka. What now, love? What more do you need? Ask and it's yours, love. We'll do whatever you like." </p><p>They were married in a grove formed at the still blue end of a lagoon. On land which had once been old D'laniaa, had once been the little island of the Weds-Leaves-to-Sea, but which was now, as all the islands were, the communal land of every elf. In the distance, the gold-and-pearl towers of Nara stretched above the waters, dryads in canoes singing to their cousins as they wended their way down the new rivers formed by Nara's rising. Deeper down, the naiads opened their windows into the blue sea and sang back. </p><p>Anka's marriage was a holiday. He was not the only dryad to return to the islands with half-elf clutches, with scars on him. With strange needs, and yet with nightmares of abuse that left his cousins and neighbors singing out to him in the dark, trying to soothe him to sleep. But he was the last of those so affected to heal enough to pledge himself to a mate. He had resisted that with any of the kind suitors Ril'karrat and Kouvi had introduced him to. </p><p>"Rellat d'leei ora Morovia, keliya-tuo," he'd said each time. </p><p><i>My heart, beloved family, is in Monrovia</i>.</p><p>Ril'karrat had been accepting of that. But Kouvi had never been too pleased with it. Still, he'd had the years to reconcile himself to it, and as he was mated to a Wrollf himself, he could hardly judge Anka. </p><p>His eyes still flashed as he did his part in the ceremony. It was in D'lani, but Summerstoke knew enough D'lani that this was not a problem. He understood why he and Anka were on the little podium standing back to back, their friends and family on all sides. As Kouvi ruthlessly interrogated him, the much kinder Euphemia Audley -- Summerstoke's cousin -- interrogated Anka.</p><p>"Anka-Eleyi, <i>darling</i>, do you pledge yourself to Robert for the rest of his life? To accept his partnership and bear his clutches, to defend with him the same terrace in the trees, both now as you are, and later, when you will walk D'laniara as a bold and strong man-dryad, no longer a mere child of waves and branches?"</p><p>"With all the green of the leaves and the salt of the sea," Anka replied.</p><p>"Oh, jolly good," said a relieved Euphemia. </p><p>Meanwhile, Kouvi was perhaps menacing Summerstoke a bit too much with the ceremonial sire-torch, getting the flames right into his face.</p><p>"Robert West-Ruther, do you commit yourself to the Weds-Leaves-To-Sea? Do you give the last years of your and worthless and short life to the honor of protecting and serving our Anka-Eleyi, offering him your seed so he may be blessed with a clutch to hold? Do you pledge yourself to honoring him even when he is no longer young and fertile, even when he has grown past his pre-dinkala?"</p><p>Anka was sure he would. Anka hoped he would. Still, for one long moment he was helpless with worry that Summerstoke would not wish that commitment. That being reminded of the fact that, someday, Anka would be an adult and tall and commanding, no longer so pretty and youthful, would have the Earl crying off. </p><p>"Of course I bloody do," Summerstoke snapped. "Will you get that torch out of my face, please? When do I get to turn around and kiss him?"</p><p>And then -- then Ril'karrat stepped forward and with a claw cut their bindings. Anka was swept around instantly, swept by his Robert. Pulled into Robert's arms and kissed with such force it left him whimpering happily. All around them, their friends and family were shouting their joy. Eleyi, Kalki, Kip. Freddie and Euphemia. Hil’ki, Orrak, and Robert's brother, Jem. And countless others. </p><p>It was done. Anka was pledged, and Robert pledged to him. At last, at <i>last</i>, this man was Anka's family.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Remember when I said there was only the epilogue left? I lied. I’m sorry. Actually there was also this chapter left, because I personally require a chapter of Summerstoke committing himself wholeheartedly and explicitly to giving sweet (needy) little Anka everything Anka wants, forever.</p><p>Summerstoke like 100K words and two fics ago: “This elf now belongs to me and I’ll destroy him until he gives me whatever I want.”<br/>Summerstoke now, a Much Wiser Man: “What do you need, Anka? You need me to give up my titles? My property? Done. What else? Can I be your husband? Why aren’t they letting me kiss you yet? This is an outrage. I just want to kiss you.”</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The years that followed were gentle bliss. They kept a proper nest in the tree-tops, on a terrace Anka could reach with his claws and Summerstoke accessed by the winding, beautiful steps Orrak had carved into the trunk of the great home that sheltered them all. </p><p>Within a few years, Kip grew tall and handsome and took a pretty young elf for a mate. Eleyi and Kalki grew fertile and beautiful and took their own mates, and bore their own clutches. Jem and Orrak and Anka introduced Summerstoke to the Lumo-naiads, the strange elders who had been sired on a naiad by an ancient Wrollf. They lived in the deepest parts of the sea and had tusks and hairy Wrollf-skins they could take on and off at whim. Together the Wrollves and the Lumo-naiads worked out a treaty with the Wrollfmaidens, to offer a home to the lumbering, gentle kinds of Wrollfkits that were considered disfavored in the Norderlands. In exchange, the daughters of Lumo pledged to teach all their sons to defend D’laniara when necessary. </p><p>And one day, King Edward came to the archipelago, as he would come many times more. On that day he came to sign a formal peace treaty with Ril'karrat, and on that day the stooped, white-haired Lord Taverner and the tall Countess came with him, and saw with grateful tears in their eyes the perfect islands of D'laniara, the islands that had not been destroyed despite all the evil done to them. That would never let themselves be destroyed.</p><p>Like Anka. Anka was like that. Anka, who was not worthless or sorry or a whore. Anka, who was a dryad and a naiad, a child of D'laniara. Who looked at his scars and his strange needs and the pain of his past, and forgave himself for all of that. </p><p>On the wedding night, Anka did as Ril'karrat had instructed. He burned the last of the sweet D'laniaa junglegrass that had been keeping him from bearing. Burned it and offered it to the trees and the green, the trees and green which had kept him from a third clutch until he wanted it, and which had served that purpose faithfully and well.</p><p>Then he hastened to the warm bedding tucked away in their private corner of the terrace, beneath the huge, sheltering leaves of the jungle trees. He crawled into that lovely nest, where a handsome Wrollf with poison-green eyes was already waiting for him. Though Anka had done this before, many years and half a world ago, he still felt shy and overcome.</p><p>"Robert," he whispered. He knelt with his back to his husband, looking at him over his shoulder. Then, coyly, he leaned forward and offered up his cunt. His arse.</p><p>His Robert's pick, tonight. Whatever he wanted. For tonight, Anka was only pleased to have him. </p><p>The big cock took him in both holes that night. That night and every night after for a week, using Anka hard until Anka mewled in satisfaction. In the mornings, he would find the little cracks in the trees where the stars were giving way to bright sunrise, and watch the transformation in Summerstoke's arms. Held and fucked pliable, his mind dazed and content and his body warm around Summerstoke's softening cock.</p><p>"Beautiful," his Robert would grunt out sometimes, half-asleep himself.</p><p>"It is," Anka agreed once. He was just coming to, feeling so deliciously used and still so wanting that he’d begun clenching his cunny on his husband’s cock, trying to get it hard for him again. "I hadn't thought you would come to D'laniara with me, but it's lovely here, isn't it?"</p><p>Summerstoke chuckled, coming more awake at that.</p><p>"I meant you," he told Anka. </p><p>Robert kissed him and kissed him. And, nearly as good, tugged Anka's sensitive nipples until the dryad’s cunt was drooling, close to its first orgasm of the day on those lovely little twinges alone. </p><p>Then, when Anka was whining and eager, fucking down onto his pole, Rovert kissed him again. Rubbed the nipples nicely now, easing the pain. The attentiveness shored something up in Anka. His Robert knew just how to play him, knew how to bring Anka to the brink of hurt, that feeling Anka knew so well, and then --</p><p>Then be kind. Then make it all better. Every time a reminder that there was more than pain, that things could be <i>better</i>.</p><p>Robert broke off the kiss only long enough to say, "I had money and power in Monrovia, but nothing of value. Not even my Wrollfhood. Geraldine and father were in the North, and Jem here. And you -- I didn't have <i>you</i>. Here I have you, Anka."</p><p>And Anka felt warm, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, or the nice gentle touches. Or even the big, hot cock inside him.</p><p>After that, it wasn't a week more before he woke up burning. Burning and needy. The sheets were soaked around his cunt, and he cried out desperately for Summerstoke, fucking his own green fingers into his hungry hole to try and get the fullness he craved.</p><p>He was in heat. True heat like a child just entering clutch-bearing, with his reset body, which had gone so long without carrying young, now pushed into begging for it. He marveled at the process, in the one small corner of his brain that wasn't given over to being ravenous for cock.</p><p>When Summerstoke finally rushed back to bed, Anka had his holes up again and was begging for it. His Robert was in him deep on the first stroke, and Anka was heat-loose around him, ready to be fucked hard. He was coming as soon as he was entered, coming to make his whole channel slick enough to take rounds and rounds of fucking. His body craved the burn of it, the heavy weight driving in. Wanted that cum in his womb, wanted a third clutch more than anything, more than breathing.</p><p>A clutch Anka could raise himself. Both of them, the little D'lani Anka would have, and the little Wrollf-man to match its sire. A clutch given to him by his Robert.</p><p>He cried his happiness when he got the knot this time, happiness and delight at the way all that scorching cum swelled up his belly. He felt the tight, stretched skin there with eager fingers. It was a portent. In a few months, he'd be bigger than this. Robert did not know it yet, but he would be.</p><p>After that, it was only waiting. Waiting until he started to show, until the round bump of his stomach was undeniable. Anka didn't say a word, just let his Robert look up one day and realize. </p><p>Those poison-green eyes went so, so wondering. So hungry, too. Robert was on him in seconds, cradling the bump in his long-fingered hands.</p><p>"I'm only about a month along," Anka told him shyly. "It's a while yet, before they come. Thanks to you, my--"</p><p>Summerstoke put two fingers to his lips, silencing him. He pulled Anka in and wrapped his arms around him, pressing kisses to his hair. His voice was hoarse, as if he were fighting off great emotion.</p><p>"Don't thank me, my Anka," he said, between kisses. "Don't. I should thank you. You changed me. Made me better in every way. And now--"</p><p>He sank to his knees now to press kisses to Anka's belly, warm and reverent. Loving.</p><p>"Thank you, my Anka," Robert told him, over and over again. "Thank you."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end!!</p><p>A worshipful thank you is the first thing Anka told Summerstoke, and it’s now reflected back on him a hundredfold, because I’m sappy.</p><p>If you liked this, please let me know, and thank you so so much to everyone who has been so supportive about this series!! ❤️</p>
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